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Class _rps_^5n2> 

Book J: ^ gC g> 



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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Copyright 1903, by Edward W. Barnard. 

^U Rights Reser-ved. 







THE LIBRARY OF 
CONbRESS, 

Two Copies fteceiveti 

OCT 9 1903 

Copyoght fcntry 

CLASS 'a K(c. No 

'1 / ^ -L^ ! 
COPY b. |! 



With a few exceptions these verses are familiar to at least a part of 
the Public. The Author's grateful acknowledgment is due the 
Editors and Publishers of The Bookman, Broivning' s Magazine, The 
Criterion, The Critic, yudge. The Land of Sumhine, (now Out West) 
Lt.'lie's (Veehly^ Life, (New York) Life, (Brooklyn) Lippincott" s, The 
Literary fVo'ld, The Munsey, The Neiv England Magazine, Outing, 
The Pbilisttnt, Puck, The Smart Set, Toivn Topics, The Transcript, 
(Bostpn) Truth, Vogue and fVbat To Eat, for their courtesy in per- 
mitting the re-print of those lines which first appeared in their columnsj 
also to Messrs. Oliver Ditson & Co., Boston, for the privilege of using 
the words of the songs "Falila" and **I Didn't Mean To," published 
by them. The collection includes as well contributions to Chips, The 
Fly Leaf, Godey'' s Magazine, The Jester, (Boston), Kate Field'' s 
Washington, The Lotus, and other Journals of lesser note now defunct. 



Printed at The G or ham Press y Boston. 







: ;c 



To 

Flora 

Loyal Friend, 
Devoted Sweetheart and 

Ideal Wife— 

this Book is Lovingly 

Dedicated 



Much Memory — more Imitation; — 
Some Accidents of Inspiration; — 
Some Essays in that finer Fashion 
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion; — 
And some {of course^ more roughly wrought 
Id catch the Advocates of 'Thought, 

— Austin Dobson. 



Ohyfor the Poet-Voice that swells 

To lofty truths, or noble curses — 
/ only wear the cap and bells. 

And yet some Tears are in my verses. 
I softly trill my sparrow reed. 

Pleased if but One should like the twitter; 
Humbly I lay it down to heed 

A music or a minstrel fitter, 

— Frederick Locker, 



CONTENTS 

CELEBRATING MINE OWN 

Flora's Playing - - - - 15 

A Fair Example - - - 15 

Anacreontics - - - - 16 

Falila - - - - 17 

To My Affianced - - - 18 

To an Old Year and a New - - 19 

Consistency - - - - 20 

When Stella Came - - - 20 

What Stella Sees - - - 21 

I Didn't Mean To! - - - 22 

A Small and Early - - - 23 

The Measure of Stella's Love - 24 

A Typical Sunday - - - 25 

A Lenten Ballad - _ - 26 

IN DIVERS MOODS 

Consolation - . - - 31 

Impressions - - - 31 

Heart of the Woods - - - 32 

When Middle Age Has Older Grown - 32 

Le Calme - - - "33 

At the End _ _ . ^^ 

To a Little Apostate: Aetat Seven - 35 

The New Circe - - - 36 

Bitter Memories - - - 36 

Betty to Herself - - - 37 

On New Year's Eve - - -38 

Old Valentines - - - 39 

A Winter Song - - - - 40 

A Ballad of Old Skates - - 41 

For the Eye of Hortense - - - 42 

Of Gretchen, Who Comes With the Ale 43 



LITTLE FLINGS AT LITTLE FOLLIES 

His Waterloo - - - - 47 

The Deduction of Misogynist - 47 

Where Culture Failed - - - 47 

Hairless and Heirless - - 48 

A Misconstruction - - - 48 

If John Alden Came to New England 49 

Assertion and Proof - - - 49 

An Awakening - - - 50 

Three Old Birds - - - 50 

There's a Time for Everything - 50 

A Father Speaks - - -51 

A Verification - - - 51 

Two on the Camel - - - 5 2 

The Omnipresent Pessimist - - 53 

The First Clouds - - "53 

On Circumstantial Evidence - - 54 

Ceramic Melancholy - - - 54 

The Old and the New Athenian - 55 

The Clothing of Cupid - - - 56 

February Weather - - - 57 

In the Age of Fancy Bosoms - 58 

A Tale of Three Cities - - 59 

Average People - - - - 60 

Little Lyrics of Sorrow - - 61 

Emancipated - - - - 62 

The Matron Soliloquizes - - 63 

The Confession of a Mean Man - - 65 

To G. W. on His Birthday - - 66 

An Easter Soliloquy - - - 66 

A Forecast - - - - 67 

An Even Thing - - - - 68 

A Lay of Modern Millinery - - 69 

Upon Saying Good-bye - - - 70 

Reversing the Positions - - 71 

Exercising Their Prerogative - - 72 



Making Her Task Easy - - 73 

The Questions of the Day - "73 

The Division of a Thanksgiving Bird - 74 

Past, Future and Present - - "75 

Winter Sports — A Contrast - - 76 

An Appreciation - - - - 11 

THE CONCEITS OF A GENERAL LOVER 

^ inter Roses - - - 81 

Leigh Hunt Revised - - - 81 

In Doubt - - - - 81 

The Captious Fair - - - 82 

Her Valentines: 1898-9 - - 82 

A Drive and Its Consequence - 83 

How Times Have Changed! - - 83 

The Thrift of Alicia - - - 84 

The Conceit of a General Lover - 84 

The Proxy of a Saint - - - 85 

At the February Tea-Party - - 87 

A Lenten Wish - - - -87 

At Vespers - - - 88 

Natalie Looks Forward - - - 89 

At Easter - - - . g^ 

A Plan that Worked too Well - - 90 

A Lenten Address to Cavillers - 91 

Where I Come In - - - 92 

Of April Sunshine - - - 93 

The Ways of Blanche in Spring - - 94 

A Song of Seedtime - - 95 

Urbs in Rure- A Moving Tale - - 96 

Upon Bernice in May - - 97 

A Small Admission - - - 97 

Hazards - - - - 98 

Lines to Hortense in June - - - 99 

Showing Cause - - - 100 

The Magic of Drusilla - - - 100 



Of Summer Reading - - loi 

The Little One Man Wants - - 102 

Polliette on Thanksgiving - - 103 

An Avatar of Yule - - - 1 04 

The Transit of Mars - - 105 

Mary's Spinet - - - - 106 

The Specialty of Prue - - 107 

The Lover Finds a Way - - - 108 

Heigho! - - - - 109 

An Aggravated Case - . - iio 

The Ballad of an Ultra Girl - - 1 1 1 



SONNETS 



^ 



Patience 


- 115 


Indifference - - - - 


115 


Ingratitude 


- 116 


Diana's Baths 


116 


Sea Dow^ns 


- 117 


The Road to ** Paradise" 


117 


In Autumn Lanes 


- 118 


When Winter Widows All the North - 


118 


Palmistry _ _ _ 


- 1^9 


La Coupd'Essai _ _ _ 


119 


Spring - - - - 


120 


The Sop to Cerberus 


120 


To Constance in a Picture Hat 


121 


To Constance on All - Hallow Eve 


121 


La Chrysantheme 


122 


The Dyspeptic to His Familiar 


122 


To a Wishbone - 


- 123 


A New Year Sonnet in Dialogue 


124 


[ GALLIC BONDS 




(Quatrains - - - - 


- 127 


Unrecognized _ _ - 


127 



Wolf! Wolf! - - - - 127 

A Modern Instance - - - 127 

A Marital Necessity - - 127 

On a Poetaster - - - 127 

An Optimistic Tailor - - - 128 

The Influence of Art - - 128 

And There Are Others - - - 128 

The Power of Slang - - - 128 

The Nation's Birthday - and Mabel's - 128 

Triolets 

Winter Violets - - - 129 

Hope Springs Eternal - - - 129 

Converts - - - " I3<^ 



Rondels 

On Her Kitchen Apron - - -131 

When Wound a Forester so Blithe a Horn? 131 



Rondeaus 

Reflections - - - - 13^ 

My Chiffonier - - - - 132 

The High CoifFurc - - 133 

To Skate with Hermia - - -133 

An Explanation - - 134 

To Bernice in Lent - - - 134 

On Myra's Heart - - - 135 

What Harrie Said - - -135 

When the Kiss Had Been Taken - 136 

The Tea She Brews - - - 136 

Of a Fancy Skater - - I37 

Has Lent a Charm? - - - ^37 

As Grace Unpacked - - - 138 

What Could She Do? - - - 138 



A Dissembler - - - 1^9 

The Maidens to St. Valentine - - ^39 

Two Rondeaus _ . _ 

As the World Goes 



140 
141 



Rondeau Redouble 

Under White Apple Boughs - - .142 

Pantoum 

The Tribulations of Tryphena - - 143 

BALLADES 

Ballade of Entreaty - - - 147 

Ballade of Longing - . - 148 

Ballade des Papillons - - 149 

Ballade of Modern Love - - -150 

Ballade of the Tenth Muse - 151 

Ballade of Chivalry - - - 152 

Ballade of Many Loves - - - ^53 

Ballade for Bedtime - - - 1 54 

Ballade of Frocks and Pinafores - '^55 

Ballade of Acadie - - - 156 

Ballade of Annisquam - - - 157 

Ballade of the Golden State - - 158 

Ballade of Falila and Western Days ■ i 59 

Ballade of the Avenue - 160 

Ballade of March Winds - - 161 

Ballade of the Borrower Month \ 62 

Ballade of April Weather - - - 163 

Ballade of Shrovetide - 1 64 

Ballade of a Summer Night - - 165 

Ballade of Blue Seas - - 166 

Ballade of a City Bower - - - 167 

Ballade of the Summer Park - - 168 



Ballade of the Yacht - - - 169 

Ballade of October Dusk - - 17° 

Ballade of Thanksgiving - - - i?' 

Ballade of the Mistletoe Bough - 172 

Ballade of White Year - - - 1 73 

Ballade against the Utopian Screed - 174 

Ballade of the Reviewer - - - 175 

Ballade of Current Fiction - - 176 
Ballade of the Contemporaneous Drama - 177 

Ballade of Her Bonbonniere - - 17^ 

Ballade of Business Letters - - ^79 

Ballade of Age and Youth - - 180 

Ballade of Snobs - - -181 

Ballade of a Modern Witch - - 182 

Ballade Penseroso - - - 183 

Ballade of the Snowdrop - - 184 
Ballade of the Evergreen and True Friendship 1 8 5 
Ballade of the Song and the Plaint 



86 



''More Poets yet P^ — / hear him say, 

Arming his heavy hand to slay; — 

** Despite my skill and 'swashing blozVy^ 
They seem to sprout where'* er I go; — 

1 killed a host but yesterday /" 

Slash on, O Hercules I Tou may. 
Tour tasF Sy at besty a Hydra-fray; 

And though TOU cut y not less will grow 
More Poets yet ! 

Too arrogant ! For who shall stay 
The first blind motions of the May? 

Who shall out-blot the morning glow? — 
Or stem the full hearths overflow? 
Who? There will risey till Time decay. 
More Poets yet ! 

— Austin Dob son. 



CELEBRATING MINE OWN 




FLORA'S PLAYING 

She played. Apart we sat in rapt delight. 
All chatter hushed and gossip put to flight. 

What was the piece ? I really forget ! 

A fugue perhaps, a nocturne, canzonet — 
In music-lore I am no learned wight ! 

But this I know, withal my learning* s slight. 
Deft was her execution and aright; 
And later, in a rollicking duet 
She played a part. 

All done, she turned about, and then despite 
The distance of my seat — distracting plight — 
I caught a flash of lace, a gleam of jet — 
A long-drawn, sweet, deep sigh — our eyes had met ! 
And in all Life's best things from that dear night. 
She played a part! 

A FAIR EXAMPLE 

Add to the thousand little lights 

That play in Flora's hair. 
The thousand thousand in her eyes 

That burn so constant there: 

To these the marble curves of brow 

And neck, the warmer lines 
Of ears transparent, delicate, — 

Shells set in sunny shrines. 

To these the milk-white seeds that gleam 

In her pomegranate mouth 
That speaks with such a winning lisp 

The language of the South. 



15 



Set down the dimples, if you can 

Count such elusive things. 
That twinkle in her cheeks, as in 

Her sky, the lamps Night brings. 

Then choose a figure to express 

The amplitude of hers, 
(A graceful one of speech will serve 

So it but truth avers. ) 

And if in summing you are skilled 

A deal or not at all. 
The footing of these myriad charms 

You'll find is very small 

ANACREONTICS 
Dele from the pledge my name. 
Writhing 'neath a drift of blame. 
Where but now I wrote it fair. 
When my hand inscribed it there 
My slow eyes had not beheld 
Flora's charms. The mist dispelled. 
Now, though all light fades from mine. 
From her eyes I'll drink the wine! 

Dele from your scroll my name. 
Blot it out, nor cry me shame. 
Prate not of sobriety — 
Prithee, what's your cant to me.? 
I'll be sworn that you must needs 
Fashion more alluring creeds 
Ere less oft her lover sips 
The red wine of Flora's lips! 



i6 



Drop my name, and in its place 

Put some wight's whom Flora's face 

Has not turned a Bacchanal. 

I see but equivocal 

Virtue in your abstinence 

When such eyes and lips dispense. 

Cheering as the blue above. 

The life-giving wine of love. 

FALILA 

(song) 
Once I worshipped orbs of blue, 

Falila, 
'Twas long, long ere I knew you, 

I would say. 
For since in your deep, dark eyes 
Cupid took me by surprise. 
Not a charm in others lies 

Falila. 
Theirs is dear and constant light 

Falila, 
That transcends the stars of night 

As the day. 
And the blue eyes cease to be 
Limpid lakes of witchery 
When they softly beam on me, 

Falila. 

Refrain : Fa/i/a, Falila, dear Falila,, 

Coy, unassuming, unvain : 
Love does not blind us as sage fe hows say 

But rather makes Beauty more plain. 

Once I held the golden hair, 
Falila, 



17 



Beautiful beyond compare. 

But to-day 
In your wealth of tresses brown 
I behold a fairer crown 
Fitter far for world renown 

Falila. 
Yet if Fate had giv'n in place 

Falila, 
Of dark eyes and gypsy grace. 

Sweet as they. 
Golden hair and eyes of blue. 
To first tenets I'd been true 
Seeing so much good in you, 

Falila. 

Refrain: Falila^ Falila y dear Falila^ 

Coyy unassuming^ unvain . 
Love does not blind us as sage fellows say 

But rather makes Beauty more plain. 

TO MY AFFIANCED 

Should you fail me, O dear heart! 

What were then Life's pleasance to me? 
Smile, with hope my pulses start; 

Frown, my sweet, and you undo me. 
Let all good of Earth be mine. 

What would gold and fame avail me? 
Nectar would be dregs of wine. 
Should you fail me! 

Should you fail me, O dear heart ! 

Cursed would be the years I knew you: 
Cursed the days from you apart. 

When in dreams I came to woo you. 



i8 



I would sorrow and repine 

Though men as their chief might hail me: 
Ah! the sun would cease to shine 
Should you fail me! 

Should you fail me? No, dear heart! 

God and fate together drew us. 
We'll be true through smile and smart 

While the life-blood courses through us. 
Though our day to dark decline. 

Doubts o( you shall ne'er assail me: 
Love to Lust will sell its shrine 
Ere you fail me! 

TO AN OLD YEAR AND A NEW 

Good-bye old year that wert so kind. 

You leave me richer far to-night 
In all the goods the world holds dear 

Than when you gladdened first my sight. 
Indulgently you granted, too, 

A tittle of the fame I sought; 
But, greater than repute or pelf. 

Another treasure still you brought. 
And when I speak of you I'll say: 
''The year that gave me Falila.^* 

And you, wee stranger, at the gate 

Whom presently we must let in. 
How shall one have his welcome run 

Your favor and your smiles to win? 
A greeting! May it be your will 

To keep us as you find us, blest; 
But if to me, so happy now. 

Some measure of distress seems best. 
Take gold and name, but O I pray 
Leave me my loving Falila! 



»9 



CONSISTENCY 

My wife defines athletics 

*' Brute force upon parade," 
And downs their staunchest champions with 

A lingual fusillade. 

She's wrong, but quite consistent. 

For, loyal to her views. 
She even shuns the study when 

Pm wrestling with my muse. 

WHEN STELLA CAME 

(song) 

When Stella came I thought my heart was full to over- 
flowing 
Of Her, but little more than child herself, who gave me 

Stella, 
But Oh! the heart's capacity is past all mortal knowing. 
For mine holds Stella now and, in the old place, Stella's 
mother ! 

Refrain: There' s always a place for one more in the 
hearty 
The store-house of love is as wide as the sea. 
And all it demands of its tenants is part 

Of theirs that shall always in readiness be. 

And though my heart to-day appears to be a well-filled 
dwelling. 
Whose owner looks nor right nor left to find him other 
tenants. 



It has, perhaps, a chamber wide and ample — there's no 
telling ! — 
For yet another stranger, should one come, if like my 
Stella. 

Refrain: There^ s always a place for one more in the 
heart. 
The store-house of love is as wide as the sea. 
And all it demands of its tenants is part 

Of theirs that shall always in readiness be. 

WHAT STELLA SEES 

"Papa, I see a baby in your eyes!'''* 

Though all day long the sun his light 

Sheds on us at a lavish rate. 
The noon of my content's at night 

Just when the short hand's nearing eight. 
For that's the hour my witch of four 

Claims for her very, very own! 
The paper drops ! — she's at the door ! — 

Then presto! she is on her throne 
And whispering in that voice so dear. 

Aye with the same shy, sweet surprise. 
Her tiny mouth close to my ear: 

**I see a baby in your eyes! " 

A baby in my eyes! Ah! yes. 

And that is all xh^x Stella sees: 
She vaguely knows when they caress. 

And by their gloom when things displease. 
But naught appears upon the glass 

Which mirrors her bright face, to tell 
What complex feelings crowd each pass 

Behind its smiling sentinel. 



Anxiety for future years. 

What's that to Stella? She descries 
No token of my hopes and fears. 

But just **<? baby in my eyes! " 

However kind. Old Time at last 

Will dispossess the tenant wee: 
Girl, woman, as the years go past 

Succeeding to the tenancy. 
Love light in other eyes will shine 

And glad my darling's earthly way. 
Please Heaven, when in sadder mine 

The shadows of my dotage play. 
But not till they forever close. 

While Death's dark angel waits apart. 
Or chance or changes shall depose 

The baby reigning in my heart! 

**I DIDN'T MEAN TO" 

(song) 

I 

Someone was naughty to-day. 

Disobeyed, pouted and cried; 
Wanted to have her own way 

Though it were better denied. 
But when time come for ** Good-night," 

''^If I have grieved you, ^'* she said. 
Hiding her eyes from the light. 

Pulling me down by the bed, — 

Refrain: **/ didn* t mean tOy honest and true! 

1 didnU mean to, true as I live!^"* 
What could I say to her, what could I do? 

Nothing but hug her, kiss and forgive! 



II 

Someone's mamma pains me, too, 

Sometimes when things don't go" right, 
And she is certain to sue, 

When it comes time for ** Good-night," 
For my forgiveness and say. 

Turning her wet eyes from me, 
**If I have hurt you to-day*'' — 

Using the baby's own plea: 

Refrain: **I didnU mean to, honest and true! 

I didn^ t mean to, true as I live. ' ' 
What can I say to her, what can I do? 

Nothing but hug her, kiss and forgive. 

A SMALL AND EARLY 

On Christmas I dined at an hour 

Which well might be classed as unseemly. 
But though you shut me in a tow'r 

I'll still say I liked it extremely. 
The napery, whilst hardly new, 

In places was strikingly snowy; 
The china, in Delftest of blue. 

Attractive without being showy. 
Indeed, I was pleased with my lot. 

And though she said **bestes^ " and ^^mostes* 
And ''Isn't /.?" for ''Am I not?'' 

I had an unparagoned hostess. 

The table, it's true, was quite small — 

So tiny, in fact, that I fear it 
Would never have answered at all 

Had I not floored myself to be near it. 
The service was rather unique. 

But marked by dispatch (if not neatness!) 



^3 



The tea was transparent and weak. 

And ev'ry course cloyed with its sweetness. 

My bones and my back ached again. 
Yet, as I'm a penitent sinner, 

I truly regretted it, when 

The breakfast-bell ended our dinner. 

I sat at the end of the day 

Beside a board rich of complexion; 
Its master a man who can play 

The part of the host to perfection: 
A man whom I envied lang syne 

His wealth and his high social standing. 
But, somehow, a feeling more fine 

Than envy my breast's now commanding. 
For Heaven's denied him one gem 

That I proudly wear — the wee daughter 
Who dined me at 7 A. M. 

On the dishes St. Nicholas brought her. 

THE MEASURE OF STELLA'S LOVE 

She rendered unto him all day 

The good Saint's due — praise, gratitude. 
And with such warmth I'm free to say 

It put me in a jealous mood. 
So when she came to say * Good-night^ 

And whispered in my willing ear. 
On tip-toe in her gown of white. 

Softly, **/ love yoUy papa dear!^^ — 
"You love me, but how much?^'' I said. 

And after just the slightest pause 
She answered, pulling down my head: 

^^ I love you more thaii Santy ClausT^ 



24 



The day had been a happy one 

As ev'ry Christmas ought to be; 
There was no dearth of cheer nor fun 

And ev'ry bell pealed merrily. 
Those near and dear had said * Good- will* 

In more or less substantial ways, 
And nothing in the guise of ill 

Had called for pity or dispraise. 
But Stella's bed-time hour by far 

The happi-est was to me, because 
'Twas then she found, my own bright star! 

She * loved me more than Santa Claus! ' 

A TYPICAL SUNDAY 

Another Sunday's over, and what of all the plans 

Through the long week since Monday for its obser- 
vance laid ? 
(And when I write ''observance" I ask not any man's 

Belief that my devotion is ^// to churchdom paid!) 
To read and write a little, and in the afternoon 

To doze a time serenely, the gyves of business slipped. 
To me means rest the sweetest. The hours fly oversoon. 

And with a mellow meerschaum Care shortly is out- 
stripped. 
'Twas in this lazy fashion I planned to spend to-day. 

But I've not read nor written nor caught the shortest nap. 
And smoke? Of course I didn't! How could I do 
aught, pray. 

With Flora at her music and Stella in my lap? 

The wife laughed bits of gossip between her bass hits at 
A florid old concerto, — some alien knave's, in short! 

The daughter plead for stories, impressing on me that 
They must be of, to please her, a Zenda Jr. sort. 



»5 



I cultivated patience when dinner, so to speak, 

(For some good Irish reason) flashed in the pan and had 
To be begun all over — the bouillon the?i was weak. 

The cutlets very stringy, the coffee very bad. 
Yet here at ten I find me with marvellous content 

To my cheroot confiding that Pm a lucky chap. 
And after all the day has been most profitably spent 

With Flora at her music and Stella in my Jap. 

A LENTEN BALLAD 

( With apologies to Mr. Dobson. ) 

The ladies of St. James's 

Are charitably bent. 
And practise self-denial 

For forty days in Lent: 
But Falila, my Falila ! 

Who has no creed, I fear. 
Nor sitting at St. James's, 

Is kind throughout the year. 

The ladies of St James's 

To sewing-circles go. 
And pick the rector's daughters 

To pieces as they sew: 
But Falila, my Falila! 

Finds more important cares — 
She stays at home to set a patch 

And mind her own affairs. 

The ladies of St. James's 

In softly-cushioned pews 
Devoutly kneel to bless them. 

Their minds on gloves and shoes. 



26 



But Falila, my Falila! 

Of rites who little knows. 
Forgets herself and blesses all. 

Nor thinks of furbelows. 

The ladies of St. James's 

Are trained of throat and tongue. 
Yet somehow their responses 

Are very badly sung: 
But Falila, my Falila! 

In notes and staves untaught. 
Can trill the quaintest catches 

With real music fraught. 

The ladies of St. James's 

Deserve your stern rebukes. 
They sneer at every stitch on 

The ladies of St. Luke's: 
But Falila, my Falila ! 

As a true woman should. 
Looks underneath the surface 

To find the pure and good. 

The ladies of St. James's, 

They put their sackcloth on 
For each brief Lenten Season, 

And sin again anon. 
But Falila, my Falila! 

Has nothing to repent. 
She makes each day a Shrovetide 

And never comes to Lent. 

My Falila! My Falila! 

They may be fair of face. 
But all that make St. James's 

Have fallen far from grace. 



27 



They take their lip-devotion 
Where all the world may see, 

But Falila — my Falila — 
Does right for only me! 



2S 



IN DIVERS MOODS 




CONSOLATION 

When one has striven year on year 
With faithful zeal to gain a goal. 
Devoting heart and mind and soul 

To its attainment; and the cheer 

Of reaching it at last seems near. 
Only upon succeeding days 
To have it fade from hopeful gaze. 

Leaving a sense of failure clear — 

What can be consolation here? 

This: Consolation mightiest — 

The knowledge we have done our best! 

IMPRESSIONS 

En Ville 

Who has been born and bred in some old town. 
Where patriarchal elms or willows meet 
In leafy arches over lane and street. 

Bestowing shadow rugs of tender brown 

Upon the road beneath, once he has pressed 
The choking dust of a metropolis. 
Will aye recall the day as spent amiss, 

A time of scorching fever and unrest. 

A la Campagne 

Who has been fostered in a city's glare. 

And trodden all his youth its blistering ways 
That know no shade save that the midnight lays- 
Let him no more than from his railway-chair 
Catch one short glimpse of Nature's lavishment 
Upon a favored vale of groves and green. 
And he forever will unite the scene 
With thoughts of perfect peace and sweet content. 



HEART OF THE WOODS 

Heart of the woods, throbbing so tristflilly. 
Whether embraced of the amorous noon. 
Or the clear gaze of the passionless moon 

Searches your depths, whitely and wistfully: 

Whether the May trills to you cheerfully 
Madrigal measures of blossoms and wings; 
Or a chill, airy-limbed autumn night brings 

Voices to chant, dolefully, tearfully, — 

Wherefore your grief ? Sobs for the olden time 
Ere ruthless man profaned your sweet shade; 
When the stag came to your innermost glade; 

This is your grief: Grief for that golden time. 

Heart of the woods, then mine is kin to you; 
That e'er is turning to days that are fled: 
Turning to loves that are tombed with the dead. 

Heart of the woods, let me come in to you. 

WHEN MIDDLE-AGE HAS OLDER GROWN 

That hoyden. Youth, flings wide the door 
And wantonly the garden's store 
Quick he despoils, and leaves to die. 
His brief desires that satisfy. 
Scarce redder than his cheeks, his lips. 
The roses that he ruthless clips. 

Staid Middle-Age in high-backed chair. 
Ensconced in the low window there. 
Descries this sack of summer's gifts. 
And eyes, voice, finger, he uplifts 
In stern reproof of Youth's mad way 
That darkens all his little day. 



3* 



When Middle-Age has older grown 
Not only will he then condone 
Your maddest pranks, and fondly be 
The very soul of lenity; 
But, harking back long years, you elf. 
Will join you in them all, himself. 

LE CALME 

I. 

After long time of dread shrieking of winds and of merci- 
less tempest. 
When the sea thunders its blackness up, up, till a sullen 

cloud plunges 
Bright, quiv'ring shafts in its bosom — then, after the 

night has gone over. 
Comes sweet-mouthed morn, gentle-miened, all roseate, 

dreamy and peaceful; 
Spotless of sky, save a lark*s silhouette that to sunward is 

winging; 
Silent of voice, save the song of the lark in faint snatches, 

and murmur. 
Musical murmur of ripples that hasten them shoreward in 

gladness; 
How near is God when the storm's rage is spent and the 

sea has grown tranquil ! 



33 



II. 

How like is life to the tempest, how like to the blind, 
blighting tempest. 

While its young barque tosses over the black sea of treach- 
erous passion. 

Seaming the innocent face with the horrible scars of in- 
dulgence. 

Dulling the eye, the mouth's kindliest lines turning cyni- 
cal, bitter. 

How we chafe, serfs of unrest, 'neath the galsome strong 
fetters that bind us. 

Till through the clouds shines the light of bright eyes that 
entreat and encourage. 

Ah ! the dear feeling of peace, with the old paths forever 
forsaken. 

Follows bestowal of God's choicest blessing — a pure love 
requited. 

AT THE END 

We were of those misled, who love too well; 

Who wreck Youth's shallop in the brine of tears. 
And for a day's delicious briefness sell 

The uniform content of many years. 
But though we erred together, equally. 

The unappealable ukase of men 
That set the scarlet brand of sin on me 

Left him unscathed, life to begin again. 
Despair had maddened him, and anguish torn. 
If he had borne the blame that I have borne. 

From room to room the shade of Hester's Pearl 

Through those last months walked with me, old and 
wise; 
The signet of my shame, too, was a girl 



34 



Who looked reproaches with her father's eyes 
A bitter twelvemonth and unchristened died. 

I laughed once more — the first time after — then. 
The precious boon of weeping me denied. 

While in black scorn their fingers raised again. 
Ah! what a trifling thing had been earth's scorn 
If he had shared the blame that I have borne. 

His lawful wife is fair as I am swart; 

Her hair is sunny and her eyes are blue; 
And they are happy, if the world's report 

That reaches my asylum walls is true. 
Pure soul, if she has taught him to forget 

The sad imprudence that has been my ban. 
To her I owe of gratitude a debt. 

For Oh! I love him as she never can. 
If for a minute's space Peace he has known, 
'Tis best that I have borne the blame alone. 

TO A LITTLE APOSTATE: ^TAT SEVEN 

Less than two months ago, one Nicholas 

Your patron saint was, and no pow'r could dim 
The faith impregnable you placed in him. 

Nor banter its undoing bring to pass. 

And now, you renegade, 'tis Valentine 

To whom you pay your worshipment devout. 
And lie awake o' nights to point me out 

As one deserving of a costly shrine. 

But why should I complain, all said and done. 

Against your innocent apostasy? 

What is your little fickleness to me 
Since I'm Sts. Nick and Valentine in one ? 



35 



THE NEW CIRCE 

No islet- kingdom has this fair-haired one. 

Of drugs no knowledge, philtres brews not she. 

Yet many self-sure men has she undone 

By her own ways of pleasant sorcery. 

She whirls in no mad dances dervishly. 

Nor with incantatory crooning charms 

Her hapless slaves, who yet would not be free 

While with a conq'ring smile she soothes, disarms. 

Born of some slight neglect, their fears, doubts and alarms. 

She has no wand nor needs one. Her demesne 

Is ev'ry drawing room. A slender chair 

Becarved and gilt, her throne that any queen 

Might wish to sit upon. About her there 

They crowd, the subjects of this guileless fair. 

Fain for the services she may commend; 

Content forever the sweet bonds to wear — 

That even Egypt's moly cannot rend — 

If she, though loving not, to love them will pretend. 

BITTER MEMORIES 

The reminiscent rhymester sings 

Full oft of childhood days. 
Which ever flit on brilliant wings 

By most nectarious ways. 
Sweets pur et simple fill his rhyme. 

No bitter may steal in. 
And it is very clear that I'm 

Not of the singer's kin. 
For when I go down Memory's street 

At every turn I see 
Quinine — that must be taken *neat' — 
And boneset tea. 



36 



And, though it sounds a paradox. 

More bitter things than these 
I find in the Pandoran box 

Of childhood memories. 
Not aloes — which I learned to like 

What time I bit my nails. 
Nor rhubarb — I was such a tike 

For mixing of my ails! 
But these, these are the bitterest — 

Molasses thick and black 
With sulphur subtly coalesced. 
And ipecac! 

BETTY TO HERSELF 

( On Christmas Mor7iing) 

How kind they have been to their Betty I 

What girl is so favored as I ? 
The sum of my virtues is petty. 

But love sees the figures mile-high. 
The pleasing array's almost endless. 

They've humored my every whim. 
Yet I feel quite forsaken and friendless — 
There's nothing from him ! 

His income I know is a small one 

With which a great deal must be done ; 

Forsooth, it's enough to appal one. 
His burden Irom sun unto sun. 

But surely I've kept within reason 
Expecting, by good-will inspired, 

A greeting becoming the season — 
It's all I desired! 



37 



These verses I longed for so deeply 

Are puerile things after all; 
And none must discover how cheaply 

The strains of this rhapsody brawl! — 
But whose card is this with the roses ? 

It's his ! — and the line that I read 
Such a beautiful secret discloses 

My cup's full, indeed ! 

ON NEW YEAR'S EVE 

( A Reverie) 
There sinks the last December sun, 

(The prospect from this window's cheerful!) 
And new days come, rose-hued or dun. 

As fate ordains, another y earful. 
Who'd spare the old year's hoary locks? 

Not Davy, by his namesake's lockers! 
Tomorrow he steps out of frocks 

And into knickerbockers. 

And now the moon above us fares: 

(The prospect from this window's charming!) 
Old moon, old year! My own grey hairs 

Are coming at a rate alarming. 
But who would have the minutes stay? 

Not I! I like the present phasis! 
To-morrow puts my starveling pay 

Upon a higher basis. 

Eleven strikes! I'm half asleep! 

(My stars, this window-seat is chilly!) 



38 



The vigil I set out to keep 

Seems after all a trifle silly. 
Who bids Time ** Halt !'' ? It's Imogene's 

Sad voice that mourns xS\q far niente 
Of fleeting, tranquil, care-free teens — 

Tomorrow she'll be twenty! 

OLD VALENTINES 

To-day with a yearning for long ago days 

And all the bright things that were one with my youth, 
I threaded the lumber-room's dustiest maze 

And sung as I searched of life's raptures and ruth. 
I brought out old books and turned many a leaf 

Which still has the power my interest to win. 
And presently came on a yellowy sheaf 

Of valentines hid since the sixties were in. 

The red rose is white and the violet blue 

Is faded and pale as a flower of snow; 
Forget-me-nots reft of their delicate hue 

Have ceased for true lovers and happy to blow. 
The once dainty lace shows the ravage of Time, 

The tinsel is tarnished and glistens no more. 
But clear as a bird's is the lilt of the rhyme 

And tender and sweet as I found it of yore. 

With reverent fingers I lifted each one. 

Recalling the sender while quiet tears fell; 
I said o'er the verses by heart, missing none. 

And marvelled that mem'ry should serve me so well. 
The years have set some things most sadly awry! 

This dumpy gilt Cupid and scintillant dove 
Are not more old-fashioned and graceless than I, 

And all things are changed but the language of love. 



39 



A WINTER SONG 

A full moon and a silver floor 

Swept by a bracing gale 
Await us out-of-doors, my dear. 

So leave your paltry tale. 
So leave your love-sick tale, my dear. 

With all its base intrigue 
And come where, gaged by Joy, each rod' 

A mile, each mile a league! 

The turn-pike leading riverward 

Sings with the crunch of snow ! 
There's new life in the crispy air! 

Come! Get your skates and go. 
Your sharpest and most bright, my dear. 

And be prepared to pay 
A small toll at the crumbling gate 

Upon our pleasant way. 

We'll seek the willows that dipped in 

Our skiff on August nights. 
And mark how hazily the skies 

Reflect the city's lights. 
Reflect! The city's lights, my dear. 

Have lost their chiefest beam 
When you, in brisk or balmy hours. 

Are with me on the stream. 

Your eyes will dance at one mile-stone. 

At two your cheeks will glow; 
At three I'll say it's best to turn. 

And yet you will not ! No! 
And yet you will not know, my dear. 

The meaning o'l fatigue. 
For love and sweet companionship 

Make inches of a league! 



40 



A BALLAD OF OLD SKATES 

I see a host of little men 

Troop by from school at half-past three. 
And presently troop back again. 

Skates on their arms, in highest glee. 
The gleaming blades throw back to me 

A shaft of sunlight and are gone. 
And then, as in a dream, I see 

The old-time skates that buckled on ! 

They all come back — the good old ways ! — 

The legend that to boy and man 
The cars showed on propitious days — 

^^ Good skating on Branch Brook'''' it ran. 
From that hour Boreas began 

His reign, till disenthroned anon. 
There were no dearer treasures than 

The old-time skates that buckled on / 

Good skating? Well! Four months of it ! 

(The winter months then got their dues !) 
And many a night saw bon-fires lit 

Upon the ice — and barbecues! 
At six, with heel-plates in my shoes. 

My best boast was that I could don. 
With all their clumsy straps and screws. 

The old-time skates that buckled on ! 

Young man, the modern skate's a *champ* 

And *just perfection', you declare; 
But I'll be bound the clever clamp 

Does not increase the sport a hair. 
I'm in the forties now, my share 

Embonpoint ; but by Helicon ! 
If I could skate I still would wear 

The old-time skates that buckled on I 



41 



FOR THE EYE OF HORTENSE 

When 1 was still in velveteen. 

Love's meaning all unknown to me, 
A lady on a lacquered screen 

Smiled from her bow'r seductively. 
And underneath the study lamp 

A wee bronze siren slyly made 
(^ vivandiere from Cupid's camp) 

To win me with a serenade. 
But gazing from my hassock low 

I craved, far out of reach and risk. 
And tricked to thrill Monsieur Watteau, 

A dainty shepherdess in bisque. 

The Oriental's outspread fan 

And bright kimono ^ cherry-hued. 
Changed to a garden of Japan 

The parlor's stuffy solitude. 
And many an hour's distress allayed 

The cithern of that brazen minx, 
(According to my mood she played 

The Matde?i* s Prayer or Captain Jinks!^ 
But of my glance oblivious quite. 

Unbending as an obelisk. 
Stood far above me chill and white 

The tender shepherdess in bisque. 



42 



The people of my nursery days 

Have come again in later years: 
One lights with smiles uncheery ways. 

One still with lightsome music cheers. 
And she to whom my heart goes out 

With all the fire of twenty-two 
Is far above me, ill with doubt. 

Like that cold Phebe I once knew. 
Indeed, for all that falls to me 

Of favors from this maiden brisk. 
She might as well, I vow it, be 

The soulless shepherdess in bisque. 

OF GRETCHEN, WHO COMES 
WITH THE ALE 

When quip and jest no blithe response 

Wake in the hypped heart. 
And in life's arbor for the nonce 

No grapes are else than tart, 
I summon for my better state 

A sylph in wooden shoes. 
Before whose smile fly swift and straight 

Most mazarine of blues! 
A gay good genius from the Rhine, 
My Lady of the cheerful stein. 

The nectar on Olympus quaffed 
Would not, (I'm giving odds!) 

Once o'er *old musty' they had laughed. 
Have satisfied the gods. 

And none who in our days his whet 
Takes from a crystal brim 



43 



Brought by a much-befrilled grisette 

Knows what joy's lost to him. 
She comes with better drink than wine. 
My Lady of the cheerful stein. 

Like lovely Aphrodite, sprung 

From Neptune's bitter spume. 
Fair Gretchen stands froth-crowned, a young, 

Bright goddess dooming gloom. 
But underneath her simpler zone 

No guile plans escapades. 
The pride of conquest quite unknown 

Beneath her flaxen braids. 
She boasts more charms than Proserpine, 
My Lady of the cheerful stein. 

And if in lonesome hours to me 

When nights are cold and long. 
To wish she were an entity 

The stimulus is strong, 
I just reflect: Had she a heart 

My measure might be woe! 
The creature of a potter's art 

If she remains, I'll know 
She really is mine, all mine — 
My Lady of the cheerful stein. 



44 



LITTLE FLINGS AT LITTLE 
FOLLIES 




HIS WATERLOO. 

Man is heir to divers trials. 
Tribulations and denials 
Of the things which most devoutly 
He desires. But still he stoutly 
Bears up under disappointment. 
Finding efficacious ointment 
In sweet Hope, that ne'er forsakes him. 
For his wounds. Yet one thing takes him 
With despairing. He resigns his 
Claim to meekness and consigns his 
Shoestring to Dan Pluto's lakes. 
When it breaks! 

THE DEDUCTION OF A MISOGYNIST 

I swear by Master Lempriere, 

So grieve the more that he insists. 

With much misled mythologists. 
The Sphinx was partly woman. Share 
This view who will, / must conclude 

It's a mistaken one, since she 

(I grant the feminality) 
Belies it by the course pursued. 
To make and keep a secret so 

Till it was guessed — guessed , if you please — 

To hold her tongue for centuries 
And be part woman still r O no ! 

WHERE CULTURE FAILED 

After years of application. 

With a master's touch acquired. 
She resumed her humble station. 

Music-mad, Ambition-fired. 



47 



Something simple, she reflected. 

Would most tickle her relations; 
Consequently she selected 

When they came to hear her play 
**Home Sweet Home" — with variations. 
Ere its last run died away 

Spake her father, coaxing-slow: 
**That is fine, we will allow, dear. 
And well-done, we're sure, but now, dear, 

Play us something that we know.'''' 

HAIRLESS AND HEIRLESS 

Upon his head were fifty years : 

(And little else.) To twenty 
The maid might own. He had no fears. 

Of earth's goods having plenty. 
That she would answer aught but ^^Yes " 

When he his mind had spoken. 
He hesitated, ne'ertheless. 

To speak! The silence broken 
At last, he made a lengthy plea 

Unlike the **old, old story," 
Which seemed for all the world to be 

A sort of inventory. 
Her answer: **Hopc I cannot give, 

'Tis vain the matter mincing. 
You are, sir, like your narrative. 

Both bald and unconvincing!" 

A MISCONSTRUCTION 

**Does your wife put thyme in dressing?" 

Queried Marjoram of Sage. 
**Well, she does, you're safe in guessing. 

From an hour to an age ! 



Last night, sir, while she was making 

Ready for a little call 
I caught forty winks, and, waking. 

Read the paper, ads and all. 
Wrote a letter — two — and then I 
Took a turn at smoking. When I 

Rolled the seventh cigarette 

She was far from reaching yet 
The first stage of * 'prepossessing" — 
Does my wife put time in dressing!" 

IF JOHN ALDEN CAME TO NEW ENGLAND 

If by some strange dispensation John Alden should visit 

New England 
He would, no doubt, mark with wide-eyed amazement 

the magical changes 
Wrought by the Arts and the Sciences since the old days 

of the forest ! 
But what would dumbfound him more than the 'phone 

and the spark-spitting trolley 
Is that nine-tenths of her people can trace their direct 

descent from him. 
Granting their claims are well-founded 'twould seem, with 

a start of some ages, 
Abraham's seed is not in it for numbers with Alden' s, by 

legions ! 

ASSERTION AND PROOF 

If you discredit this, that wives are sold 

In our enlightened land and years of grace 
As evilly as in the days of old. 

And at a quicker than their pagan pace. 
Come call on me some day when mine is out 

And, proving such iniquity prevails, 
I'll show you spread my little house about 

The Dead Sea fruit of countless * 'special sales!" 

49 



AN AWAKENING 

When Bernice was learning to skate I decided 
Her slenderness gave no idea of her weight. 

For all the enjoyment was hers, undivided. 
When Bernice was learning to skate. 

But now, when at midnight she roars like a furnace, 
I pause on each lap of my journey to state. 

Her daughter weighs fully a stone more than Bernice 
When Bernice was learning to skate. 

THREE OLD BIRDS 

Beaming with foster-motherhood 

She asked (still fiercely ruminant) 

The hall-rooms latest occupant; 
"And do you find the turkey good?" 

At first he seemed to have no tongue. 

But presently he gravely eyed 

His vis-a-vis and thus replied: 
**Madame, they say the good die young!" 

THERE'S A TIME FOR EVERYTHING 

On most occasions you might take 

Estelle for **Silence" fled her frame : 
When with sweet, tight-closed lips she sits 

You're sure to cry her sisters shame 
For their distracting badinage; 

And when she smiles, their repartee 
And wordy wit fall flat enough 

Beside her quiet brilliancy. 



50 



Her taciturnity destroys 

The flavor of that ancient jest 
That Woman talks most all the time. 

And never gives her tongue a rest. 
But there is an occasion when 

On chattering she will insist 
Fast as the jay proverbial. 

And that's when she is playing whist. 

A FATHER SPEAKS 

I've read somewhere that when the patch was worn 

A grace it lent the wearer 
Which made the plainest faces less forlorn 

And fair ones fairer. 
The verses that I cite go on to state. 

Lamenting that it is so. 
This aid to beauty that could animate 

A woman's phiz so. 
Is now irrevocably out of date. 

I wish to set the rhymer right, for though 
I may lack much of his accomplishment, 

I've four boys under ten and chance to know 
That patches still obtain to some extent. 

A VERIFICATION 

A long, long time I paid 

My honest addresses 
A someday-monied maid. 

And naught but caresses 
Told her how my heart laid. 
And why? I was afraid 

She'd yes me no yes-es! 



51 



And when I spoke at last. 

Still doubting and fearful. 
Though no sweet word she passed. 

But blushed and grew tearful; 
Her heart was won, I knew. 
Her heart, and dollars, too. 
Which proved to some extent 

Two adages olden — 
That "Silence gives consent'* 

And ''Silence is golden." 

TWO ON THE CAMEL 
I 

I've studied the tale 

Of the straw and the camel. 

That picturesque mammal. 

And this I've concluded : 

We've all been deluded. 
The straw that undid him was surely a baJe. 

II 

But still I'm immersed 
In doubt, as at first. 
Concerning the fate 

Of Croesus & Co. 
When through Heaven's gate 

They venture to go. 

This, though, I do know 
There's nothing to trammel 

The average rich man to-day. 

If he, by some chance, should essay 
The feat that's assigned to the camel. 



52 



THE OMNIPRESENT PESSIMIST 

As I came saunt'ring home this afternoon 

A sense of utter joy awoke in me. 

And with the singer sang I, ** Verily 
These are rare days that wait on roseate June." 

The sky was almost cloudless, and the bay 
A sheet of silver, while a trillion wells 
Of sound and scent wrought their enchanting spells 

Meseemed to make this the most perfect day. 

But at the crossing of two dusty ways 

One, travel-stained, my castle of Content 
O'erset, my mind's calm sea turned turbulent. 

With the assurance **/^^'d seen better days!" 

THE FIRST CLOUDS 

In the Drawing Room — one week after marriage. 

"Please don't smoke here, my own. 

You'll ruin drapery and curtain. 
And, what's more serious. 

You'll undermine your health, I'm certain!" 

In the Library — a fortnight after marriage. 

**You shouldn't smoke here^ Fred, 
Unless you want to split my head!" 

In the Kitchen — a month after marriage. 

**You can't smoke here!" 

So I've sworn off? O no! 

Go to the Club? I'll maybe later. 
Just now down cellar, I 

Smoke with the furnace, like a crater. 



53 



ON CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 

My ! What a plight the child is in ! 

It means an instant tubbing, 
(Where can the little scamp have been?) 

With some, perforce, ungentle rubbing. 

A half-hour since I set him down 

With ev'ry stitch on snowy. 
And boots that not a beau's in town 

Could quite outshine, however showy. 

Be sure he's gone upon the road 

And fallen in a puddle 
In spite of our ^/(?;?' /-go-there code — 

How else explain this precious muddle? 

Mud head to foot, on neither shoe 

The slightest trace of blacking; 
Curls gone and hat on wrong side to. 

Its strings, — one torn, one wholly lacking. 



Sh ! Nurse, bethink yourself a bit 
And don't make such a pother: 

The boy has only, as is fit. 

Been out a-walking with his father. 

CERAMIC MELANCHOLY 

How blue they are ! What is amiss ? 

Their lot seems not a bad one ! 
Why do they stand so long like this 
And look, united in a kiss. 

As if they'd never had one ? 



54 



The present indications are 

That naught can come between them. 
Her pater might — a family jar 
Suits him! — but though he isn't far 

I'm sure he hasn't seen them! 

Why are they blue? Has some small mind 

Their manners been attacking ? 
Though hard of feature and inclined 
To stiffish limbs, a certain kind 

Of polish they're not lacking. 

No, ears for critics they have not. 

And clever must the shrew be 
Who wins with railing half a jot 
Their eyes from the accustomed spot. 

Then why should they so blue be? 

Friend, your conclusion has its flaws. 
There's nothing much the matter. 
Our loving twain are blue because 
They're fixtures without rest or pause 
Upon an old Delft platter. 

THE OLD AND THE NEW ATHENIAN 

When young Priscilla drove her cows 

From Temple Place to Copley Square, 
Or listened to a lover's vows 

On Beacon Street, just as and where 

Her fair descendants do, a spare 
And simple gown by her own fingers made 

She wore, nor other gowns she had, 
B ut yet their portraits vest her in brocade. 
Put patches on her cheek to add 

Another charm, and powder in her hair. 



55 



We pardon them their small deceits. 

Reflecting that some future race 
Of wider minds and wider streets 

May please upon its wall to place 

Priscilla's real self, and trace 
With pride its sure ascent from lowly things. 

Ignoring mushroom growths between. 
But meanwhile erudite Minerva clings 
To bookishness and glasses green. 

And judges old-time worth by pictured grace. 

THE CLOTHING OF CUPID 

We looked at pictures, Stella on my knee. 
Our favorite diversion, you must know: 

The book, a mythologic ABC 

Of dead divinities, both high and low. 

And under V we presently espied 

The Queen of Love with Cupid at her side. 

In flowing Grecian robes was she arrayed. 
He, plump and pink and quite au naturel : 

I made to turn the leaf — my hand was stayed 
And then I knew I had a tale to tell. 

"Who is that lady, papa?" asked my Joy; 

Said I: <*It's Venus and her little boy." 



56 



She conned the picture long and earnestly — 
The rose-lipped god, the goddess, each in turn 

Then looking up beseechingly at me. 

She said, with all a mother's deep concern. 

While two bright tears came trickling down her nose 

*<Why doesn't Venus buy her baby clothes?" 

Quoth I, to comfort her: *'The picture's old 
To-day young Cupid goes in splendid garb, 

A wallet filled to overflow with gold 

His surest, nay, his only certain barb!" 

****** 

And gentle reader, it is yours to say 

If I told not some whit of truth that day. 

FEBRUARY WEATHER 

A foretaste of the by-and-by 

Smiles in the genial sun. 
And in the azure of the sky 

Italia is outdone. 
The morning's charms of gleam and glint 

A trillion is their sum. 
And on the fields the diamonds hint 

Of emeralds to come. 
To Beth the air's like wine 

That needs no label lent it — 
She has a valentine 

And doesn* t know who sent it ! 

And now, behold ! the light of spring 

And balm of spring is flown! 
The skies are dark and lowering 

As are Siberia's own! 
The snow that just entranced the eye 

Again lies like a pall. 



57 



And even by a grate piled high 

Beth closer draws her shawl. 
In all thi?igs here below 

Her interest'' s grown atomic — 
She^ s opened it, and O 

Her valentine'' s a comic ! 

IN THE AGE OF FANCY BOSOMS 

What made the man conspicuous 

I, somehow, couldn't tell : 
His coat was in the best of taste 

And fit exceeding well ; 
His trousers — light, but not too light — 

Were of a modest check. 
And not an ultra stitch was in 

The collar on his neck. 

Th' extraordinary something I 

Sought vainly in his hat. 
For neither shape nor trimming gave 

Me aught to cavil at. 
His shoes, I found, were seemly for 

A self-respecting man — 
Not bottle-green nor ox-blood red. 

But just a decent tan. 

His tie of golf effects, so-called. 

Was innocent ; and why ! 
The jewelry in sight you could, 

I vow, put in your eye. 
In fine I stewed and studied till 

I felt defeated quite. 
When suddenly I noticed that 

The shirt he wore was white ! 



58 



A TALE OF THREE CITIES 

1894 

Priscilla of these fin de siecle days. 

Who from old Pilgrim stock boasts her descent. 
Reads Emerson and Browning, and essays 

A tilt with any sage at argument; 

Goes to the Symphonies, plays whist in Lent — 
Yet in one way she patterns her grandames. 

For when a bit of gossip you bestow. 
With /?// her ismic knowledge, she exclaims: 
**I want to know!" 

Who has come down upon Manhattan-isle 

Through a long line of tradesfolk Vans, to-day 
She perches high upon the social stile. 

And plumes herself on being distingue. 

And on her etiquette; but if you say 
A thing is thus and so, strange to relate. 

If to the belle your news is a surprise 
She'll tell you that *you don* t say,' sure as fate. 
With open eyes! 

A piquant cousin of the hearty West: 

*«We got the Fair from you, you know!" said she, 
** We've half your gelt, and soon shall have the rest. 

And no one bluffs about his fam'ly tree!" 

Stunned by her verve, yet anxious to agree, 
**Our girls, with all their style, cannot compare 

With yours for looks," he said. And thus she spake; 
With elevated brows, inquiring air, 
*'For Heaven's sake!" 



59^ 



AVERAGE PEOPLE 

The Woman 

She may know a little bit of ev'rj science in Creation; 

She may know the tricks of tradesfolk, and the art of 
simulation ; 

Read your future with the aid of chirosophic divination; 

Write an idyl, solve a riddle, or deliver an oration: 

She may speak each language spoken either side of the 
equator. 

And of Hebrew, Simian, Sanskrit, be a wonderful trans- 
lator; 

Tell you in an optic twinkling any scholar's Alma Mater ; 

Drive a tandem, quote at random, play the role of com- 
mentator: 

May know ev'ry constellation that begems the Emyrean, 

And the digest governmental of the festival Fijian, 

Or the ne'er-completed pattern of the web Penelopean; 

Play sonatas, song cantatas, make Herculean tasks pygmean. 

She may cram her precious head with legal knowledge 
over-full. 

And get herself admitted to the bar ! 

But by the rood, she doesn't know which rope she ought 
to pull 

When she wants to stop a car! 

The Man 

Though a man may boast degrees and be a manor-born 

logician. 
Be too politic an one to ever be a politician; 
Be his Club's loved chronicler and his set's first statistician; 
Know all philosophic ethics; danger of slight erudition — 
Know the jasmine from the jonquil, musk and myrtle from 

rosemary ; 



60 



Be a match at judging gems for any old-world lapidary; 
Tell a-trice your sauterne's brand, and name the vintage 

of your sherry. 
And discuss at length the future of the footstool planetary — 
May be able to prescribe a remedy for rheumatism. 
Write a screed inscribed to Ibsen on the charms of Real- 
ism ; 
Know true humor — never bore you with a third-rate 

witticism. 
Sail a boat and kick a ball and yet repeat his catechism, — 
Yet withal one thing he's lacking for he never, never can 
With becoming grace and skilful learn to use a lady's fam! 

LITTLE LYRICS OF SORROW * 
I 

Quite unpremeditatedly 

I made my mundane, small entree y 
Impressionable, diffident. 

Upon my country's natal day. 
And till I reached my lesser teens 

I took for granted the parade 
And all the noises of the Fourth 

Exclusively for me were made. 

Yes, the awakening was rude. 

But with the buoyant heart of youth 
I kept my equanimity. 

Glad, very glad, to learn the truth. 
'Tis not till now that I can see 

My error in a birthday's choice. 
When generations four relate 

Its sequel with composite voice. 

*The Author was born on July 4tli and Wasliiugton is one 
of his given names. 



6i 



II 

Misguidedly my sponsors gave 

My country's father's name to me — 
But doubt not that I honor it 

Because I write *misguidedly' ! 
It is because through life I must 

Be governed by a precedent 
For ev'ry deed and utterance. 

Yet fail of great accomplishment. 

Just ponder my distressing state. 

You who with tongues bond-free and glib 
Know the delight of coloring 

The cloth of an artistic fib! 
I, Truth's drab road am forced to take 

Day in, day out, — to just confess 
A love for harmless Fiction's, to 

Be taxed with my unworthiness. 

EMANCIPATED 

By my own act I'veju&t escaped 

A thraldom most appalling 
Wherein Time bound me link by link 

With fetters strong and galling. 
From golden chains of pleasant weight 

They grew to leaden slowly 
Till I, suspectless and serene. 

Was in their power wholly. 
It's dissipated now and I 

Could cut some youthful capers. 
A brand-new lease of life is mine — 

I've stopped my Sunday papers! 



62 



When first I crushed the Puritan 

That ruled in me and read them. 
They were a source of profit and 

Of pleasure. Now I dread them. 
From simple folios one might **do'* 

Before the morning service. 
They've turned to things whose very con— 

Templation makes me nervous. 
The octopus, the centipede. 

The hydra — these are vapors 
Innocuous and roseate. 

Beside the Sunday papers! 

Pm freed from all their siren charms 

Of cheap critiques and aimless; 
Of vapid social drivel and 

Of Grundyisms shameless. 
The youngest member'll mourn, no doubt. 

That horror for sane scorn meant — 
The colored supplement, — his ma 

The **Hints on Home Adornment." 
My girls will miss the **Fashion Notes," 

My boy the beauish draper's. 
But then j^^-preservation's first! 

I've stopped my Sunday papers. 

THE MATRON SOLILOQUIZES 

I hate to, yes, but soon I must 
Wear glasses or take things on trust; 
Time's is a slow and certain thrust 

That can't be parried. 
Was it not yester-year we met ? 
It seems like yester^/Ty, and yet 
Two decades' — almost — suns have set 

Since we were married. 



63 



Ralph will protest he doesn't see 
A hint of any change in me — 
He always did (O didn't he!) 

Know how to flatter. 
It's true I — well, prink just a mite 
More than I used to think was right. 
But that is ejitre nous, and quite 

Another matter. 

A tell-tale box the mail just brought 
In motion set this train of thought. 
A valentine! No doubt I ought 

To call it folly! 
But Ralph still plays the lover true — 
And I like that? Of course I do! 
A valentine at forty-two! 

Is it not jolly? 

Heigho! Time flies apace indeed. 
But Cupid's not behind in speed. 
And here's a proof Love's nectar need 

Not turn to water. 
The hand is not like Ralph's a bit! 
Is this my name ? I must admit 
That glasses would not be — why it — 

It's for my daughter! 



64 



THE CONFESSION OF A MEAN MAN 

When someone sent a valentine 
To that bewitching wife of mine. 
With manner studiedly supine 

I wondered who did; 
But felt 't were futile to deny- 
That I'd a finger in the pie 
When she, with an unswerving eye. 

Declared: **Why, you did!" 

I've always deemed the man verr'uckty 

Be he a swain or Benedict, 

Who by fair means or foul is tricked 

To waste his chink so. 
Still, as I liked the sentiment 
Emblazoned on the token sent 
I must confess I was content 

To have her think so. 

And when she started to revile 
(Albeit 'round her mouth the while 
There played a happy little smile) 

With **0 how foolish!" 
I led her on with fine pretence 
Of taking most profound offence. 
And aimed — not in the grave-yard sense ! — 

At looking ghoulish. 

The episode's a twelvemonth old. 

And now — the truth were better told — 

(Guile's penalty to pay in gold) 

I' faith I rue it. 
For lest th' unknown will not sustain 
The good repute he helped me gain. 
Although my pocket dreads the drain 

Why, / must do it. 



65 



TO G. W. : ON HIS BIRTHDAY 

To prick with pessimistic tacks 
That bubble tale of tree and axe 
And show you possibly were lax 

Instead of truthful. 
Would be to rob of bite and sup 
And turn to gall their sweetest cup. 
The well-intentioned builders-up 

Of morals youthful. 

So we will grant your childhood eye 
And tongue ne'er looked nor spoke a lie- 
No doubt when bad boys passed you by 

You fairly trembled ! 
But that in vain you did not woo 
A lady fair — a widow, too! — 
Is ample proof that, later, you 

At least dissembled. 

And after Hymen's torch was lit 
And she began to tease and twit, 
(For Woman hasn't changed a bit 

Since the Creation!) 
We're safe in setting up the claim 
That you upon occasion came 
To practice — and we do not blame — 

Prevarication. 

AN EASTER SOLILOQUY 

How early in the forty days 

The penitential mood 
Remarked its strict observance sink 

Deep into desuetude! 



66 



Its charm of novelty once dimmed 
And where on earth's the pow'r 

To force the sacrifices planned 
In some pre-Lenten hour? 

Yet, gladdened by an extra glass. 

Jack will wax confident 
Tomorrow that he has denied 

Himself a deal in Lent. 
And May will feel well-scourged as with- 

The little Pharisee! — 
A sigh she drops an extra lump 

Of sugar in her tea! 

A FORECAST 

For Lettice who is only nine 

Life still holds much of newness. 
And dates in rubrics bright that shine 

She finds of all-too-fewness. 
So April First must needs run through 

From blustrous March till May-day, 
That she, our queen, turned jester, too. 

May have a month of hey-day. 
Housed by the season's frequent rains 

Is't very strange she rules us? 
Or that we take the greatest pains 

To make her think she fools us? 

A decade hence, we both foresee. 

Time will have changed things greatly. 

For Letty has unfilially 
Essayed to fool us lately 

In little things, alas! that were 
Not food for April-jesting. 



67 



(Both grandmammas, of course, declare 

We've spoilt her! — case is resting.) 
Then^ our concern will be to plan. 

Should such a need aggrieve us. 
To make her think, not that she can. 

But that she can^ t deceive us. 

AN EVEN THING 
He 

I prithee, Penseroso, dry your eyes. 

If it be only for a little while. 
I tire of this ever-doleful guise 

That you put on, and long to see you smile. 
Before we married merrily you laughed 

Upon the slightest provocation; now 
You have forgotten quite the pleasant craft 

Of keeping hearts from sinking in the slough 
Of deep despondence. Then you never frowned; 

To-day the clouds hang on your brow for hours. 
You give me April all the year around 

Without a ray of sunlight 'tween the show'rs. 

She 

Sir, if I've grown unduly lachrymose, 

'Tis for the want of some substantial cheer. 
No woman breathes who would not wax morose 

With not a cent to spend the livelong year. 
Before we married I'd at least enough 

To pick up some small thing on bargain days. 
And now, — believe me, it is very tough! — 

I must give shopping up and matinees. 
You, too, make April of each month for me — 

Sir, it alfi-ights me none, that awful look! — 
For like the urchins on the first, you see 

The string's kept tied upon your pocket-book. 



6S 



A LAY OF MODERN MILLINERY 

Imagine this complete display 
Of blossoms on a single day: 

The butter-cups and daisies pied 
With spring's field-forces e'er allied: 

The roses June has made her own 
In every cheerful color known: 

Ensanguined poppies, such as blaze 
Like suns in August's drowsy ways: 

The asters that in purple cool 
Young autumn's windy garden rule: 

Geraniums of vivid hue. 

And golden-anthered fuchsias, — two 

Old-fashioned flowers that often still 
Are wintered on a window sill, — 

And violets, the doubly dear. 
Which now belong to all the year. 

Green leaves and wisps of snowy lace 
Among the posies have a place. 

While ribbons, — yellow, mauvSy cerise. 
Or with all hues blent in a piece, — 

And gauzes that with dew seem wet 
The wondrous bower's bound'ries set. 

What do I sing.? A festal booth? 

A Flower Show? No, in good sooth, 

(And have you not conjectured that?) 
It's only Flora's Summer hat! 



69 



UPON SAYING GOOD-BY 

Well, dear, at least you start 

Upon a perfect day! 
I wish the sunshine to my heart 

Would find its cheering way ! 

Just now it's dark with dread — 
Why must you leave so soon ? 

Last year you'd not ho. forced, you said. 
To go away m June. 

The year before — you know 
That was our marriage year — 

You stayed at home — how long ago ! — 
All summer with me, dear. 

Have / grown less fond since 

Or practiced cold neglect? 
Believe me, not a thousand mints — 

How? Yes, the trunks are checked. 

Write often ? I should say ! 

I'm more than likely to. 
Seeing I've been enjoined to play 

Cashier each time I do. 

Your train's made up I think — 

More flowers ? Why, what on earth ! 
You'll leave me on bankruptcy's brink ! — 

Of course, a lower berth! 

What's that ? You needn't fret. 
I shan't have time to kill 



70 



Since some way must be hit on yet 
To pay your outfit bill. 

You haven't half you want} 

Great — well, at least, don't cry! 
Some things I can stand, that I can't ! 

Another ki — ! Good-by! 

REVERSING THE POSITIONS 

(^ Being one side of a conversation on July ^tK) 

Albion lost another daughter 

Yesterday. Who could foresee that 
When she crossed the nahsty water 

The result of it would be that ? 
Certainly / never thought to 

Be won from my single churlhood 
And a port of transport brought to 

By a slip of English girlhood. 

Eyes like corn-flow' rs out of Devon — 

(That's the shire to which I owe her. ) 
Where they smile it's simply Heaven! 

That profane ? You do not know her ! 
Such a day for such surrender ? 

Hang tradition! I'm for scorning 
Aught that stops Love's legal tender. 

And, besides, she sails this morning. 

What would my revered forbear say. 

That helped win the Revolution ? 
Don't much care, but he'd, I dare say 

None of suave circumlocution. 
Fourth or not, I felt I couldn't 

Risk the loss of Her Transcendence, 
So I signed my, and who wouldn't? 

Declaration of Dependence. 



71 



EXERCISING THEIR PREROGATIVE. 

Sibyl scoffed at all the omens 

Given credence Halloween; 
(There is nothing in a name!) 

Was she taken for the daughter 
Of some yokel Verdant Green? 

**Not the same!" 
Balderdash! But yes! O yes! she'd 

Join the others in the fun. 
And the oracles were strangely 

In her favor, ev'ry one. 
Love and riches, she would win them! — 

Sibyl now sung very small: 
Doubtless there was something in them 
After all! 

Emily in no uncertain 

Voice proclaimed her changeless faith 
In All-Hallows horoscopes : 

One may wrest the Future's secrets 
From the late October wraith 

Ere she slopes. 
Come ! The time is now propitious 

For the round of rites occult — 
But each spell she cast gave Emmy 

An unbearable result. 
Him she loved would never choose her. 

But another. She guessed not. 
And the whole thing was (excuse her) 
Simply rot ! 



72 



MAKING HER TASK EASY 

Most men (and women) when Thanksgiving comes 

Perversely cast about for evil haps. 
Determined quite to find no luscious plums 

Among the bitter fruit upon their laps. 
Most, but not all, for I've a gentle wife 

Who sees all sins met in unthanktulness. 
And makes a point at ev'ry turn in life 

Of finding good in inauspicious dress. 

Indeed, this year so keenly did she feel 

The greatness of her debt that, worried thin 
By doubt, she came to me with this appeal: 

**In giving thanks, O where shall I begin?" 
I'd failed on this before, as well she knew. 

But now I had a candid answer pat: — 
**If, as you say, /'m all the world to you. 

Give thanks for me and let it go at that!" 

THE QUESTIONS OF THE DAY 

(Thanksgiving, 1898) 

Not foreign policies 

Nor ethics of right living 
Are of the subtleties 

Considered at Thanksgiving. 
But where good appetite 

Sits down with good digestion 
Instead, **Dark meat or white?" 

Is quite the leading question. 

To-day is not the day 

To overlook the Navy! 
The Army, too, 's O. K., 

But let's discuss the gravy. 



73 



Your host with many men 

May hold that War's a blessing — 
War's clean forgotten when 

He asks: **Wi]l you take dressing?" 

We shake all business cares. 

Lay down all social crosses. 
And more prosaic wares 

Give place to soup and sauces. 
No question, old or new. 

Surer of favor high is 
Than ** Can't I help you to 

Another piece of pie ?" is! 

THE DIVISION OF^ A THANKSGIVING BIRD 

In triplets, if you please, I'll show 
How far. Thrift managing the bow, 
A turkey may be made to go. 

The neck went first to clerkly Shears 
Whose collars trespass on his ears — 
He needed it, by all the spheres! 

Miss Smith, who plays the harp and sings 

Divinely (sic!) angelic things. 

Lacked nothing when she got the wings. 

And to my boon companion Jack, 
Who summered on a cycle track. 
Appropriately fell the back. 

A maid of forty unpossest. 

Who says that Man's a flint at best. 

Found tenderness in one male breast. 

The Scotts, who boast but slender pegs. 
Can * gowf ' in kilts and filibegs 
Since served, ye ken, with sightly legs. 

74 



The liver Mrs. Grubb avers 

Of all the gobbler she prefers — 

There's something wrong (she's sure) with hers! 

With mctaphoric mal de mer 

Smith suffers every when and where — 

The seasoned gizzard was his share. 

The household's daughter, thin and tart. 
Declaring that / had no heart 
Pressed on me that important part. 

And thus the bird was lost to view: 
Yet by some more than wondrous coup 
Next day we all had turkey stew. 

PAST, FUTURE AND PRESENT 

The Koran, which in Allah's name 

Exhorts to righteous living. 
Deep in the context makes a claim 

One grants without misgiving. 
It's this, that since the earliest man 

Drew breath — nor will until the last has — 
The world's shown no face brighter than 

The woman with a cloudless past has. 

But in a sunny later year 

A lusty troubadour tells. 
His ballad making love's worth clear. 

That of all seen of mortals. 
The brightest face, or here or yon, 

(With no intention to dispute your 
Blest word, O Prophet!) shines upon 

The woman with a pleasing /i;^/z^r^. 



75 



And I, I cannot well agree 

With either seer or lyrist! 
For here's a face would rescue me 

From dumps the very direst. 
Whose owner's still oblivious quite 

Alike of past and future pleasant — 
(She's looking at me as I write!) — 

A woman with a Christmas present. 

WINTER SPORTS— A CONTRAST 

There's Percy in his Inverness 
And all the latest frills beneath: 
A blade dulled sadly in a sheath 

That's worthy better steel. No less 

His heart is heavy than his debts. 
Though he disclaims a part in Care 
And quite deceives us with an air 

Light as the salary he gets. 

And here's a chap whose wardrobe runs 
To plaids and stripes of wondrous size; 
He's cash to burn and wits to prize, 

A stranger he to writs and duns. 

Deplore his lack of taste, confest; 
By which he lives, the doubtful art. 
But envy him the merry heart 

Inside O'Brien's sealskin vest. 



AN APPRECIATION 
( Of an old sport by one^ 

The ^royal gzmt of golf,' indeed! 

How came such honor to it ? 
A nice diversion? O agreed! 

But this is how / view it: 
A famous way to take the air. 

When you have termed it regal 
You've conjured whist from soHtaire 

And called the finch an eagle. 
If tramping downs tagged by a tribe 

Of shuffling, snuffling caddies 
Is pleasant, how would you describe 

The hockey of our daddies? 

Pea-coated, one's less picturesque. 

Than in plaid hose, I grant you. 
And you can find an air grotesque 

'Round hockey-sticks, now can't you? 
(The man-made clubs of golf are goods 

On which Art's banner perches; 
We cut the others in the woods 

From youngling oaks and birches. ) 
The new-old game's all right, in short. 

For summer days and sunshine. 
But when it comes to honest sporty 

Why hockey shines as none shine ! 

What time the grassy putting green's 

A green no longer vernal. 
The fettered lake supplies the means 

To happiness hibernal. 



77 



So when, perforce, in some lone spot 

Your golf-ball's getting dusty. 
And, likewise, banished and forgot. 

Your cleik and mashie rusty, 
Don^t smoke your pipe in idleness 

And swear your case is rocky. 
But cut a stick and learn to bless 

The virile game of hockey. 



THE CONCEITS OF A GENERAL 
LOVER 




WINTER ROSES 

The roses on her hat are false as Art, 

And only Art can make them: 
Those at her throat will fade and fail apart 

As soon as chill winds shake them ; 
But ten small buds she carries in her muff 

Sweet as all June's together. 
That through life's length 'twould be delight enough 

To shield from cruel weather. 
With hot-house wares she's prodigal, indeed. 

But — that! for all my ruses. 
To give me them^ though earnestly I plead. 

She steadfastly refuses. 

LEIGH HUNT REVISED 

I kissed Jenny when we met. 

Leaning o'er the chair she sat in; 
Time, you rogue, who love to get 

Scandals on your list, put that in — 
Tell the world, but let it know 

That her summers are not many — 
Jenny couldn't kiss me, so 

I kissed Jenny. 

IN DOUBT 

I tried to kiss her and she challenged me. 
But not the ghost of an advantage lies 

In choice of weapons since 1 cannot find 

One that will match the daggers in her eyes. 

If Cupid were my second I might beg 
Or steal from him one little potent dart. 

Though I'd not be surprised to find the rogue 
Has emptied his whole quiver in my heart. 



Si 



Are they in league? Or has he aimed too high 
Half-blinded by the brilliance of her eyes. 

And lodged two arrows there that I mistake 
For hostile signs of anger and surprise? 

THE CAPTIOUS FAIR 

When I paint Constance I invest 

The sylph with every taking grace 

Of mode and mien and form and face 
Of which her sex may be possest. 
Fair in her ov^^n sweet right is she. 

Yet with complacence she concurs 

With me, assuming fairness hers 
But by the picture's courtesy. 

And is the elf to me thus kind ? 

Not so! Instead, her cruel eyes 

Search out, enlarge, and censor-wise 
Pass on my failings. Should she find 
All manly charms of mortal ken 

Some day in my poor person blent 

She still would voice her old lament 
That *I am not like other men!' 

HER VALENTINES 1898-9 

Last year Jack gave Mabel a highly-wrought panel 
Of festive, fat Loves on a tropical scene; 

This year his coin flows in a different channel — 

(They wedded while leaves were still tender and 
green) — 

For lately a need has arisen of flannel. 

And muslin and wool and a sewing-machine. 



81 



A DRIVE AND ITS CONSEQUENCE 

I drove that night. The roads were bad. 

The horses oif their mettle : 
And worse, I knew next day I had 

A precious bill to settle. 
They cracked their little jokes behind. 

As cheap as shilling crocks; 
But yet, somehow, I didn't mind 

With NelHe on the box. 

She volunteered to share my seat — 

We were not well-acquainted — 
I thought I'd find her obsolete 

And dull as she is painted. 
But ere old Time had turned his keys 

In half a fortnight's locks 
I sent a ring from Tiffany's 

With ** Nellie " on the box. 

HOW TIMES HAVE CHANGED 

How times have changed since shears and paste. 

An idle hour, a little taste. 

An almanac to rob of **lines" 

Gave us a stack of valentines — 

One for each house upon the block. 

The rising generations mock 

The old-year way — what do they not? 

A time-piece gemmed, a house and lot 

Are more consistent with these days! 

Yet here is proof one still essays 

To cultivate simplicity — 

A box of pinks from Marjorie! 



83 



THE THRIFT OF ALICIA. 

I sneer not at frugality, 

I who must practice it. 
And scrimping where the brunt's on me 

I do not mind a bit. 
I polish my own boots and press 

My clothes, refresh my hats. 
And when they hint at shabbiness 

Make over my cravats. 

Alicia takes pleasure, too. 

In small economies. 
As I encourage her to do. 

My hope in future ease. 
But I protest with high-held hand. 

When (O a woman's wiles!) 
She keeps tab on her kisses, and 

A time-lock on her smiles. 

To-day she capped the climax quite 

Of all economy, 
(I cannot speak of it, nor write. 

Save confidentially !) 
And with good Barkis she may be 

Well-called a little *near' — 
She's sent the valentine to me 

I sent to her last year! 

THE CONCEIT OF A GENERAL LOVER 

The usual monotony 

Of St. Val's day to vary, 
I think this year that I'll indulge 

In just a mild vagary. 
And make each one with claims on me 

An offering of flowers 
Instead of runes in paper lace 

Or sweets in satin bowers. 

84 



Of course I first must study up 

The language blossoms speak in, 
(A tongue, I may as well confess, 

I'm lamentably weak in!) 
Else I might choose for Natalie 

Some posy which dispenses 
Suggestive fragrance meeter for 

That wee nose of Hortense's. 

So let me see. The hyacinth 

For jealousy does duty; 
The rose a sweet exponent is 

For grace and pride and beauty. 
Enough! 'Tis here my little course 

In floral lingo closes — 
A hyacinth for Natalie, 

Hortense and Bernice, roses. 

And yet, on second thought, perhaps 

The thing were better ordered 
If I send hyacinths to all 

With just some green stuff bordered. 
A double service these will do 

Since they, the girls. Lord love 'em! 
Are jealous of each other, I 

Of each man's daughter of 'em. 

THE PROXY OF A SAINT 
i^Lines to go with Barbara' s valentine') 
This grinning lump of devilment 

In shabby blue 
Will hardly — careless, impudent, — 

Commend himself to you! 
With tales of bloody border wars 

His daily fare. 



85 



Small wonder he brings to our doors 

Wild eyes and wilder hair. 
No grace nor hint of grace is his 

To sing or paint. 
He swears, he smokes, and yet he is 

The proxy of a saint. 

And here may be a lovely gem 

Still in the rough — 
There are in old Earth's diadem 

Stars cut from poorer stuff! 
Love will some day with its sweet thrill 

Make him anew. 
And meanwhile, for a fee, he will 

Help me make love to you. 
So prithee smile upon him, Bab, 

True-blue is he 
From boots to bonnet with its cab — 

Alistic A. D. T. 

Smile, but restrict its brightness, do. 

This is not I! 
I'm waiting here to learn if you 

Will see me by and by. 
The violets I send are cold. 

But sweet as they 
And warmer far and worth more gold 

The words I want to say. 
And if you'd answer me — anon! 

Take warning, please. 
It's risky putting slights upon 

A proxy of St. V's! 



86 



AT THE FEBRUARY TEA-PARTY 
When I arrived in regimentals trig 

She stood dispensing tea and sally-lunns. 
Transformed by stiff brocade and powdered wig, 

The fairest of all Lady Washingtons. 
In time I craved the favor of a cup 

Of her own savory, delicious brew. 
Which serving me and looking coyly up 

She caught and eyed askance my buff and blue. 
Her glance said plainly as a spoken word 

In donning them I'd gone a step too far. 
For my forbears wore red for George the Third, 

And Mattie is a loyal D. A. R. 

So when the urns were drained and growing cold. 

To calm the torrent of a rising gorge 
And justify my action I made bold 

Myself to liken to that other George. 
She listened, then incredulously asked: 

«*And wherein, pray, does the resemblance lie? 
Take care, sir, that no innuendo's masked 

By the fine words with which you make reply!" 
**It's simply this," I said, intensely grim, 

** Where he was vanquished I'm content to be; 
And what fair Martha Custis did for him. 

Another Martha's fairly done for me!" 

A LENTEN WISH 

I would that all the year were Lent, 

For then Adele might be 
As contrite and as penitent 

For all her sauce to me. 
Through twelve long, blissful months in lieu 

Of forty fleeting days. 
And tiring soon of rack and rue, 

Resolve to mend her ways. 

87 



I would that all the year were Lent, 

For maybe ere its close 
Adele would find her substance spent 

In easing others' woes; 
And then, from routs a fugitive. 

Reduced to poverty. 
She might, with nothing else to give. 

Give up herself — to me! 

AT VESPERS 

In solemn mood befitting Lent 

She skurries to her pew. 
And looks to neither right nor left 

As she is wont to do. 
I follow with a beating heart 

Along the dim, wide aisle, 
To find my coming quite unmarked 

By either nod or smile. 

(The church is cold to-night, I think.) 

She does not even share 
Her books with me and stands remote; 

But when we kneel in pray'r 
Some friendly power bridges o'er 

The space between us, and. 
Assured that no one else can see. 

She lets me hold her hand. 



Sg 



NATALIE LOOKS FORWARD 

With what good taste this Lenten maid 

Is garbed. No haughty peeress 
That Worth and Redfern serve can boast 

A style so sui generis. 
The ermine beastie at her throat. 

The jet and velvet turban. 
And in her muff the violets. 

Proclaim she's strictly urban. 

But these are minor matters which 

'Tvvere frivolous to rave o'er — 
Mark rather how devout she is 

With Youth still in her favor. 
Her kneeling pose is grace itself. 

Her lips, they never falter. 
But move like clock-work through the pray'rs. 

The Collect and the Psalter. 

Yet I suspect that she is tired 

Of Lenten sacrifices. 
And wearies for a swift return 

To her small, pleasant vices; 
For as I sat behind last night. 

Upon her charms a feaster, 
I heard her chuckle to herself: 

**Just one more week to Easter!" 

AT EASTER 

The music, the flowers, the palms and the crowd 

Well-groomed and perfumed are with youth re-endowed, 

And even the cushions that cumber my pew 

In old-year magenta look cosily new. 

The saints though in glazier-set bounds sternly shut 

Are splendid with smiles. 

And the sun in the aisles 
Lifts ev'ry heart out of its work-a-day rut. 

89 



And Milly, my neighbor austere, does she share 

This general respite from winter and care ? 

Is her heart upraised, being newly unpent 

From the nominal gyves of a nominal Lent? 

Um — well — yes, perhaps! — and it's still hardly that,. 

For though lifted out 

Of the groove, I misdoubt 
Milly's heart's gone no further aloft than her hat! 

A PLAN THAT WORKED TOO WELL 
Quoth he: **Diana's at her best. 

The wind is down, the pond a glare. 
And no one of her sister months 

Is fairer than March now is fair. 
Come, bundle up and get your skates. 

To waste such evenings parlor-pent 
Is little short of sacrilege!" 

Quoth she: **I can't! I'm keeping Lent. 

**But, as I wouldn't have you share 

Unwillingly my sacrifice. 
Go call for May. The pagan, she 

Is always ready for the ice. 
And," (laughing,) *'with true Lenten zeal. 

Since she's no brother of her own, 
I'll give you up to her until 

The season's over — as a loan!" 

A fortnight after Easter he 

Received **A few short lines just to 
Remind you you were only loaned^ 

And not surrendered wholly. Do 
Come up! I'll be at home to-night 

To no one else. Yours, Millicent." 
To which he answered: "Sorry, but 

I can't! You see I'm heepi?ig lent!" 



90 



A LENTEN ADDRESS TO CAVILLERS 
If Myra's eyes, which she should hide 

Whilst making her responses. 
Instead burn impiously beside 

The dim lights in the sconces. 
And when she altarwards should look 

Soar dreamily above it. 
Ignoring quite my offered book — 
What of it ? 

And if the glowing swain who lolls 

Behind the pillar yonder. 
No grace his rectorship extols 

Finds half worth while to ponder. 
But in the seraphim that perch 

About discovers charms that 
Were better studied out of church — 
What harm's that? 

Shall not the maiden win a share 

Of happiness in thinking 
The prophet in the window there 

(No doubt she's caught him winking!) 
Has eyes like some one very dear? 

It's nothing to cry *Fie!' for! 
She may have matters grave nexi year 
To sigh for. 

And shall the boy not take delight — 

Delight not Time's to cancel — 
Remarking in the gilt and white 

Madonna of the chancel, 
A likeness to some precious she 

Of flesh and blood? Remember 
His pulse beats May time, yours, ah me! 
December. 



'Carp on then! You can force at best 

But tittles of devotion 
From hearts that ruddy Youth's behest 

Keeps in delightful motion. 
Not <?// hymns that inspire and stir 

The soul are in smug covers, 
And no Lent's in the calendar 
For lovers! 

WHERE I COME IN 

Love ne'er hath so emboldened me 

That I could gently touch her hair. 
But with rough hands March brazenly 

Takes liberties and license there. 
And makes incessantly to cheat 

Love of his very own emprise 
When Bernice ventures on the street 

By throwing dust into her eyes. 

From the blue pompon in her toque 

Down to the hem of skirts perverse. 
These winds run riot and provoke 

Me to green jealousy — and worse ! 
They fan her fair skin till it glows. 

But I'm — with confidence I speak — 
The peer of any wind that blows 

At painting roses on her cheek. 



92 



OF APRIL SUNSHINE 

I love bright days when beats the sun's fierce fire 

Full hotly in my face, and so I rail 
At April's way of whelming roads in mire 

And stretching over us skies spectre-pale. 
This morning, nathless, whilst the clouds repaid 

The anxious eye with naught but sombre tints^ 
I caught a glimpse of brightness that has made 

Me quite content with darkness ever since. 
A crocus, many-hued, flamed in my face, 

A yellow daffodil gleamed through the pane. 
But 'twas from her that I took heart of grace 

When I saw Phoebe tripping through the rain. 

The chroniclers of Fashion's doings, who 

The lore of woman's gear have down so pat,, 
A deal of work waste on a satin shoe. 

And more upon the marvels of a hat. 
They see so much by artificial light 

Of brilliant trinketry and furbelows. 
It follows, as the day succeeds the night. 

Their views must be factitious as are those. 
If screeds on party gowns attract, why you 

May still go revel in their arrant bosh 
But fairer picture than they ever drew 

Is Phoebe in her boots and mackintosh. 



9S 



THE WAYS OF BLANCHE IN SPRING 
When Blanche apprised me that she would 

Go in for gardening this year, 
I pictured grace and lustihood 

In Gainsborough and muslin sheer 

Selecting me a boutonniere 
From bed or bush or trellis wares. 
Or, gloved in yellow mousquetaires 

To shield her from their thorny stalks. 
Cutting us roses as in pairs 

We idled down box-bordered walks. 

And so my disillusionment 

Was sorry and complete enough 
When I discovered she is bent 

On raising such plebeian stuff 

As greens and turnips. Jove! it's tough 
These misty dawns that never break 
To see her moiling with a rake 

(And all to not a soul's behoof!) 
In overshoes and wide-awake. 

Or spading in a waterproof! 

But hers is just an April whim 
I fear, if half the truth were told. 

And when the tender shoots and slim 

Come struggling through the steaming mould 
Belike they'll find her ardor cold. 

Last year a seed sunned by her eyes 

Took root and blossomed — orchid-wise — 
And in a lonely heart to-night 

The flower languishes and dies 
For want of just a little light. 



94 



A SONG OF SEEDTIME 
Has April always been so fair 

Between her not too frequent tears? 
Such days have never been /vy share 

In all my five-and-tw^enty years! 
I've drunk the blue of sunny skies 

At Como, Capri and Messina, 
But in my own more beauty lies — 

I'm making garden with Selena. 

The borders of the shady mall 

We've sown with white and crimson phlox. 
And in the cranny of a wall 

Laid down the seeds of sundry stocks. 
That bed's for musk and mignonette. 

And that for slips of sweet verbena: 
The time flies as it ne'er flew yet — 

I'm making garden with Selena. 

A drift of snowy clematis 

The porch will cover by-and-by; 
And where we plant this chrysalis 

A poppy's banneret will fly. 
You know the saw — **A11 work, no play," 

But when the glance of smug Christina 
(Hang chaperons) is bent our way, 

I'm making garden with Selena. 

I love the soil, but never knew 

Such pleasure lay in planting flow'rs. 
O April! play the laggard, do. 

Make seconds minutes, minutes hours. 
Hours days, and I'll sing lustily 

Your praises in a smart sestina. 
I'd have each day a week — you see 

I'm making garden with Selena. 



95 



URBS IN RURE—A MOVING TALE 
In vain the May wind wanders in 

And softly whispers me. 
When suhry summer days are done. 

Of nights in Arcady. 
But what great miracle shall r;iy 

Arcadia restore? 
The place that knew Calphurnia 

Will know her nevermore. 

For months a Damoclean sword 

Hung trembling o'er us all : 
We shut our eyes, and laughed and sur.g. 

But knew that it would fall. 
*Twas on the year's unhappy scroll 

Immutably decreed. 
That she must go — Calphurnia! 

And now she's gone, indeed. 

She lives? Ah ! Yes she lives, but where ? 

Not where our hearts are still; 
But in pa's new 'colonial' 

At East Westmorelandville. 
A suburb — near, and yet so far! — 

Whence — O the cruel fate — 
For him that's faring cityward 

The last train leaves at 8 ! 



96 



UPON BERNICE IN MAY 

I like not May for reasons of mine owne: 
And one is this, that Bernice then is prone 
To squander ye faire Dayes, in foule Despight 
Of my fond wishes, saunt'ring farre from sight 
Thro Meddowes that an 111 denyes to me. 
Where glossie butter-Flowres & Couslips be. 

I like not May for reasons of mine owne: 
And one is this, that Bernice then is prone 
To turne a shire o' Couslips into Wine 
Which, Candour loving. He not count divine 
To pleasure hir. The sorrie Sequell's this. 
That I sleepe many Nights without a kisse. 

A SMALL ADMISSION 

Blue sky, green fields, June air, a horse provided 
That could proceed sans reins when necessary — 
Small wonder I found driving pleasant, very. 

(And Flo enjoyed it quite as much as I did !) 

It was a splendid chance — I never miss one — 
To say a pretty thing (Save your derision!). 
And so I asked ** Would life not be elysian! 

If it were just a long, long day like this one?" 

And Bob in ecstasy kicked o'er his traces 

When she made answer, thoughtfully, demurely. 
Yet with a twinkle in her eye: **Yes, surely 

The lines to-day have fall'n in pleasant places." 



97 



HAZARDS 

I'm learning golf, the *royal gamee', 

A trifle late, perhaps. 
But Sandy spaes that just the same 

I'll beat thae ither chaps. 
Already in a gowden week 

I swear as weel as he. 
And ken a niblick frae a cleik, 

A bunker frae a tee! 
Aye! vera sune I'll ken it a' — 

Save how to keep my een 
Upon the ba', the doure, wee ba'. 

When Janet's on the green. 

From Sandy's '*Yon's gey braw, my lad ! " 

I modestly infer 
That my 'address' is no sae bad: 

( Wad it micht be tae her ! ) 
My drives are unco guid, says he, 

I play my hazards well, — 
Ah ! do I ? 'Tis not clear to me. 

And only time will tell. 
Since bonny Janet golfing came 

My bachelor eyes hae seen 
That all the hazards of the game 

Are not upon the green. 



98 



LINES TO HORTENSE IN JUNE 

Hortense, 'twas when the leaves in crimson hillocks stood 

Like sacrificial pyres about the autumn wood 

That we first meet and I remember clearly that 

You wore a feather, black, forbidding, in your hat; 

A jacket tailor made, tight, of a steely blue. 

The which I envied not proximity to you. 

For from your distant mien — what else could one infer? — • 

I thought you colder than the leaves around us were. 

And first impressions last. 'Twas in your sombre furs 
I saw you next, Hortense. **Those arctic airs of hers 
Would blight a Greenland rose — if such a flow'r sees 

light!" 
I inwardly observed, and had a chill outright. 
In modish ball-room garb I saw a deal of you 
( Having the sense of sight), and marvelled that you grew 
Colder and colder still — though when you waltzed with 

me 
I could almost believe your heart beat normally. 

But now — June's be the praise — I know you as you arc: 

A sister to the rose, kinswoman to a star! 

Not till the sweet month came and showed you at your 

best 
In simple things arrayed, had I so much as guessed 
That summer in your face and soft winds in your hair 
Could work such wondrous change and make you passing 

fair. 
Nor till I saw you with your snowy shirt-waist on 
The possibilities of dimity and lawn. 



L.cfC. 



9? 



SHOWING CAUSE 

Our summer haunt's a hammock gay 

Beneath old trees 
That shield us from the sun and sway 

In every breeze. 
On wings of merriment and song 

The hours go by; 
We're happy as the days are long — 

Finette and I. 

I love the hammock — to and fro 

It cleaves the shade; 
I love the spot in Mexico 

Where it was made: 
I love the path 'neath larches tall 

Where first we met; 
Summer I love — but most of all 

I love Finette. 



Reader, you say my song's a bore. 

Its theme is trite; 
'Twas used last year, and years before; 

And you are right ! 
No doubt the statements you withhold 

Are just as true. 
But — whisper! — though all else be old 

The girl is new ! 

THE MAGIC OF DRUSILLA 
A small simoom at ev'ry turn — 

It's leonine July! 
My eyes, dust-lacerated, burn. 

My throat's Sahara-dry. 



But one forgets the heat and thirst 

Where happy I may go 
To weed and woo, when woo I durst, 

What time the sun is low. 
For sweeter than an April wood 

Is that thrice-favored spot 
Which knows when day has gone for good 

Drusilla's sprinkling pot. 

The paths that gasping deserts were 

Turns each an oasis 
With all the nectar in its air ^ 

That makes for summer bliss; 
The lawn's from parched and ghostly shapes 

Drenched back to emerald youth; 
Naught the reviving flood escapes, 

(Not even I, forsooth 1) 
And in the dripping, spicy box 

Is balm for all-day woes. 
When — O the pleasant paradox! — 

Drusilla mans the hose. 

OF SUMMER READING 

The joys that summer brings us. 

Their name is legion, sure! 
A-bush a winged choir sings us. 

And every leafs a lure. 
Deep purple groves intone us 

Chants ne'er transcribed by man. 
And close-cropped fields enthrone us 

Each some new shape of Pan. 
But ere the meadow greens get 

(Like Mollie) brown and stout. 
The high-toned magazines get 

Their Fiction Numbers out. 



Light as the down of thistles 

Our summer books should be. 
And bright as the epistles 

That Mollie writes to me, — 
Not allopathic doses 

Of Grub Street stuff that shows 
Man still intensely gross is 

And Woman full of woes. 
When Nature's face is shining 

And not a cloud exists 
One can't be bothered whining 

With cankered pessimists. 

And so my Fiction Numbers 

Go on an upper shelf. 
The tragedy that cumbers 

Their pages of itself 
Would make a new Inferno; 

Their comedy's the kind 
That makes one wish there were no 

Quills comedy-inclined. 
But if 2i book invites me 

I can't respond, it's clear. 
While Mollie daily writes me 

The gossip at the Pier. 

THE LITTLE ONE MAN WANTS 

Man wants — but pshaw! you know the lines 

As well as I! And it is so. 
Desire's a little light that shines 

Most brightly when the fuel's low. 
Could I, for instance, still pursue 

Some boon on which my heart is set. 
Should fate propitious help me to 

A seat on Sophie's wagonette? 



You've guessed it! That's the only boon 

I crave this side of summer's rout. 
Give me a clear-skied afternoon 

In August with the poppies out. 
And though wealth, fame are still to win. 

With no propensity to fret, 
I'll find a score of Edens in 

A seat on Sophie's wagonette. 

I lack ambition? Well, perhaps. 

That gift discriminately falls! 
To those — shall we say favored? — chaps 

A place in legislative halls! 
Or stocks-and-bonds supremacy, 

Seems all there is in life to get. 
Give them their share, but let mine be 

A seat on Sophie's wagonette. 

POLLIETTE ON THANKS-GIVING 
When Polliette bade me give thanks 

For all the gifts vouchsafed me. 
Recalling Cupid's recent pranks 

I — well, in short, it chafed me! 
And so, though innocency masked 

Her eyes — bright as a star they ! — 
I looked in them and sternly asked: 
'*What are they ?" 

**What is my pelf, I prithee, worth 

If you decline to share it? 
My name may echo 'round the earth. 

But if you will not bear it 
Fame cannot charm nor any hues 

Illume the clouds above me. 
I'll ingrate be whilst you refuse 
To love me." 



Returning my stern look in kind 

She answered me: **And yet, sir. 
Since all your joy's to me confined 

There's one thing you forget, sir. 
For which your thanks should rise above! 

My most despondent brother, 
'Tis though I love not you, I love 
No other." 

AN AVATAR OF YULE 
She wore my violets. I thought 

They've 'witched her with their woodland wine. 
As tremblingly, unsure and shy. 

She laid a cold gloved hand in mine. 
'Twas our betrothal ! Had I dreamed. 

Or was love hid in love's alarms ? 
I kissed her hand alone — she seemed 

Too fragile for a lover's arms. 

When I came home in autumn, ill. 

Heart-heavy, wan as grew the year, 
I saw her first, impassive still. 

In something very white and sheer : 
So dreamily she welcomed me 

From Fever's gyves on torrid shores 
I likened her despairingly 

To those pale poppies she adores. 

But here, at last, this Christmas night. 

As genie of the children's tree. 
Her cheeks aglow with candle-hght, 

A new and lovelier lass I see. 
With scarlet ribbons on her gown 

And holly berries in her hair 
She wears, go up the world and down. 

All charms that make a woman fair ! 



104 



THE TRANSIT OF MARS 
When Eloise looks up the street. 

Puts down her work — starts — flushes. 
And turns away that face so sweet 

Lest I should note her blushes, 
I wish that / were young again. 

But soon she's blithely humming. 
Forgetting me and all — and then 

I know the Captain's coming. 

When Eloise with downcast eyes 

Once more bends o'er her stitching 
And looks, as her bright needle flies, 

(If may be) more bewitching. 
You'd say she wastes no thought on men^ 

But O her cheeks are glassmg 
The red geranium near ! — and then 

I know the Captain's passing. 

When Eloise looks down the street 

With eyes wide-set and wistful. 
Her cheeks as pale as any sheet. 

Her dear mouth drawn and tristful, 
I wish that I were young again. 

For as I lift her sewing 
She sighs, O such a sigh! — and then 

I know the Captain's going. 



MARY'S SPINET 

It's hard to tell who first sat down 

Before the spinet which 
Of Mary's own delightful room 

Employs a pleasant niche. 
Perhaps to some colonial bride 

Who wedded pow'r and pelf. 
It gave the airs less favored ones 

Declared she gave herself. 

The spinet stays, although the dame 

Is gone, forgot the airs. 
To greet me through the open door 

As I go up the stairs. 
I may not set my foot inside 

Although I long to peer 
About its case to see if it's 

The real stuff or veneer. 

I never know how dear it is 

Till Mary takes a hand — 
Or two — in practicing duets 

Upon her concert-grand. 
Then I, with gratitude to Time, 

Remember, well-content. 
No touch the spinet answers, for 

Its playing days are spent. 



io6 



THE SPECIALTY OF PRUE 

But poor Bohemians are we. 

For when the play is done 
Though cafes blaze enticingly 

We find home's better fun. 
I see a something brown unpanned 

At just the proper toss. 
Her brother makes a salad, and 

Fair Prue supplies the sauce. 

The long day's doings we review; 

Discuss, each as it comes. 
The scandal of the avenue. 

The horror of the slums. 
And if the chat grows prosy then. 

As we grow tired and cross. 
With ready, real wit again 

Fair Prue supplies the sauce. 

Life, one may just as well admit. 

At times lacks character — 
An egg sans salt, a salmon fit 

Without the Worcestershire! 
But as I've said, (to her at that!) 

He'll fret 'neath no such loss 
To whose existence sometime flat 

Fair Prue supplies the sauce. 



JO/ 



THE LOVER FINDS A WAY 

I'm on a year's probation. 

We're both too young, they say ; 
She^s at her education 

And / must go away. 
So here I'm on the briny 

Bound for some horrid spa. 
Or burg remote and tiny. 

To please Pauline's papa. 
If I could drop a line each night — 
But no! he said I mustn'' t write. 

To-day we're due at Queenstown; 

A short week old my vow, 
I wish it were Pauline's town. 

The time, a year from now! 
Cheer up ? I'm quite unable! 

I've tried — yet just to say 
**I love you, dear," by cable 

Would drive these blues away. 
But — always the obdurate sire — 
I promised her I wouldn't wire. 

Said she : **Be diplomatic 

And all will come out right. 
My love won't grow erratic 

Because you're not in sight!" 
But O my heart is aching. 

And I must ask her aid: 
How can I without breaking 

The promises I've made? 
Why — precious duffer that I am — 
I'll send her a Marconigram! 



HEIGHO 

Through the reading of the psalm 
Sweet and slow. 
Soft and low. 
Fitting for the Sabbath calm. 

Someone's eyes were fixed on me. 

Without turning, I could see 
Feathers on a jaunty hat. 
Curls escaping under that: 

On her cheek a rosy spot — 

I confess my thoughts were not 
Fitting for the Sabbath calm. 
Through the reading of the psalm. 

Through the singing of the hymn 
(There were two 
In the pew!) 
Words got mixed and notes grew dim: 

So I slily stole a look; 

Someone stood without a book. 
Well, I offered half of mine 
Pointing dumbly to the line 

They were at. This one, — O my! 

**Let me to Thy bosom fly." 
Words got mixed and notes grew dim 
Through the singing of the hymn. 

Through a noon of golden smiles 
Rang **Amen" 
Clearly. Then 
Down the cheeriest of aisles. 
Hiding tell-tale eyes we went 
Side by side, with heads low-bent. 



109 



Not a body worshipped there 
Who could introduce us. Where 

Is the charm of etiquette? 

Ah! my heart is wandr'ing yet, 
Down the cheeriest of aisles 
Through a noon of golden smiles. 

AN AGGRAVATED CASE 
Of the iridescent ribbon 

In her newest collarette, 
I can mention ev'ry hue: 
There's a dozen yellow poppies 

And a towering aigrette^ 

Brightly blue. 

On her most becoming bonnet; 

And she wears a hunter's green. 
Natty, jaunty, velvet jacket 

O'er a skirt of raven sheen. 
But though I know ev'ry duller 

Tint that makes her outward guise, 
I can't tell you what's the color 
Of her eyes. 

With her taste in books and music 

My acquaintance is not slight; 
Just what flowers to bestow. 
And of which swell shop's confections 

She'll pronounce the flavors right — 
These I know. 
In despite of fad and foible 

How unstintedly endued 
May a gentle woman's mind be 

She's shown me. Her attitude, 
I can give you most minutely 

To each phase of Science, Art, 
But know nothing, absolutely. 
Of her heart. 



When I say I cannot tell you 

What's the color of her eyes. 
It is in no sense a *bluff. ' 
They have never, to my knowledge. 

Doffed their merry, dancing guise 
Long enough 
For the point to be decided — 

At long range, at least ! Her heart 
I suspect has long since fallen 

To some other fellow's part. 
But such smiles she makes a lure of. 

And my own poor heart thereat 
Acts up so I can't be sure of 
Even that! 

THE BALLAD OF AN ULTRA GIRL 
Hortense goes always to extremes 

Whatever it's about; 
One day has philanthropic schemes 

No Hirsch could carry out. 
And drains her pocket to relieve 

A very doubtful need. 
While on the next she may not grieve 

To see a fond heart bleed. 

Last year she went in for a course 

Of calisthenics; got 
A swell trapeze, a wheel, a horse. 

And Heaven knows what not. 
But this year in her dressing-gown 

Spends days, nor drains' at all! — 
Why, half the time she won't come down 

To see me when I call! 



She finds a tale of times remote 

Whose denouement is right. 
And must read all its author wrote 

Before another night. 
But when J take her a new book 

Whose praise all critics speak. 
She'll not deign it a single look 

Because **her eyes are weak"! 

However, it is in her dress 

Hortense most plainly shows 
The quite distinguished ultraness 

That makes her friends and foes. 
Whatever modes in favor come 

Hers leave them in the shade. 
For everything she wears is from 

* 'Exclusive patterns" made. 

With all her whimsies I adore 

The maid of whom I sing. 
But cannot feel that any store 

Of bliss her love would bring. 
For this thought any, every while 

Would mar the married state: 
If loving should go out of style 

How fiercely she could hate! 



SONNETS 




PATIENCE 

When one is loved and loves, and all's confessed 

With cheek to cheek, and throbbing heart to heart. 

That sw^eet, sad-eyed divinity thou art 
Which brings us Peace for regent of the breast. 
While friends and kin mistakenly protest 

Against our choosing 'til the salt tears start: 

Which teaches us to play a sunny part 
And smile at grief when grief is bitterest. 

Seen through thy glass each dun cloud parts intu'ain 
And shews the blue sky of a future year: 
Content we have of thee when tearful eyes 
Look sad farewells: endurance for each pain. 

Love quick would languish, shouldst thou disappear- 
Art thou not Love itself in other guise ? 

INDIFFERENCE 

Dear, I can bear your anger patiently 

And all the little pangs that it begets: 

There lurks no meaning in your thoughtless threats. 
They wound but slightly, though undue they be. 
I can but wait your sunny self to see 

Returned, and mourn meanwhile when care besets 

You do not find for all your woes and frets 
A better exorcist in love and me. 

But, dear, I cannot bear your coldness, no! 
The cruel line of silent, tight-closed lips. 
And unlit eyes, as fixed as a stone. 
How these do torture me none, none can show. 
I drift unsuccored of all passing ships 
Upon a bitter sea, unloved, alone. 



INGRATITUDE 

I did but very little, little gave 

Where much was due. But all I could I did 
And all I had I gave, and — God forbid! — 

Grudged neither. Was it then too much to crave 

A little gratitude? To work, to save. 
When save I can, for her; to rid 
Her sky of clouds — this is my lot till hid 

Is one of us beneath a green-thatched grave. 

And Oh! the heartache and the bitter tears 
When, after smiling on me one day thro'. 

She killed the sweet Contentment that should live. 
To taunt me with the sloth of earlier years; 
To tax me with the things I cannot do; 
To covet still the things I cannot give. 

DIANA'S BATHS 

(^Intervale, New Hampshire^ 

Where Kearsarge tow' rs, and gray Moat Mountain makes 
Through seas of mist toward Heaven's changeless blue, 
A crystal torrent born of show'r and dew 

Comes tumbling through the thick of birchen brakes 

To fill the silvern pools where Dian takes 

Her midnight plunge, unseen of men's wide view, — 
As chaste, as wanton still, as when she drew 

Her bow in Latmos woods, by Ida's lakes! 

In the dim light of stars, when no moon beams. 
Here, who has aught of poet's sight may see. 

Stretched on the torrent bank, seamed, glacier-worn. 
Half waking and half lost in pensive dreams; 
Grown tristful of his mistress' truantry. 

The shade of young Endymion, pale and lorn. 



ii6 



SEA DOWNS 

Upon Cape Ann's red-bouldered, rugged shore, 
The swift, blue billow pitches its high sprays 
Across wide slopes of furze and fragrant bays 

Whose greyish-berried branches, autumn-hoar. 

Nod wraithishly beside the marshalled corps 

Of late wild-blossoms. Here the shortened days 
Wear lovelier garments on their seaward ways 

Than in the deep of sweet-mouthed spring they wore. 

Though clover pinks be pale and asters wan. 
The lamps of autumn goldenly are lit 

Along the hill and in salt marshes lush, — 
That man the gods have surely smiled upon 
Whose canvas does but poorly counterfeit 
This simpler artistry of Nature's brush. 

THE ROAD TO **PARADISE" ^ 

Barred from the highway's dust that seaward winds, 
A stretch of sunlit sward, fringed either side 
With tall, slim willows, looking over wide 

And od'rous moors. To south 'ard Ocean grinds 

Along bare, glist'ring reefs; but no surf blinds 
Upon this primrose path, whatever tide. 
And who comes hither with his brush to bide. 

An inspiration summer-long he finds. 

The boom of hurtling waves, the whistling buoy. 
Scarce break the quiet of this pleasant pass: 
At left the old Patch-orchard trees entice 
The traveler their shadows to enjoy. 

Marsh-cosmos, safFron-tipped, gleams in the grass, - 
Here stretches the rope-gate of ** Paradise." 



*"Paradise" is the popular name of Mrs. Phelps-Ward's summer home 
at East Gloucester, Mass. 

117 



IN AUTUMN LANES 

Mark you these paths how dingy they have grown 
Within a few short weeks. A pall-wise blight 
Of dust lies thick on leaf and limb. The light 

Of yellow mullein-torches flares alone. 

Though dim and dimmer still, where we have known 
A trillion tapers summer-trimmed and bright. 
One lated daisy shews its gold and white 

Deep in the grass, by some quick foot o'erthrown. 

The thinning troops of asters wan reviewed; 

Reached, the high-road, the lane's worse counterpart. 
We conscious grow unconscious sighs between 
That strangely iiU the wider solitude, 

Of longing, keen, impatient, in the heart. 
For the return of Spring's ov^^n tender green. 

WFIEN WINTER WIDOWS ALL THE NORTH 

When winter widows all the North and folds 

Her purple woods, her yellow fields, her plains. 
In pallish motley; when from pleasant lanes 

The green he tears, and what of brightness holds 

The autumn garden still — pale mangolds. 

Late dahlias, — these, he drowns in bitter rains; 
When black storms drag their weight of icy chains 

Across the piteous whiteness of her wolds; 

When high winds drive us from the window-seat. 
Whilst chimney-voices only moan and hiss — 

Still, blossom-crowned, fruit-laden, and replete 
With ev'ry gentle thing that makes for bliss. 

Her marvellous sweet mouth, and warm as sweet. 
Uplifts the smiling South for us to kiss. 



ii8 



PALMISTRY 

She takes my hand with the soft diffidence 
That seems a part of girlhood and proclaims 
The timorous amateur; then glibly names 

Each line thereon, but holds me in suspense 

A sweet long while before she can commence 
The oracle's deliv'ry. Like twin flames 
Her cheeks burn up when finally she frames 

The promise of long life and affluence. 

If through some Gipsy strain she reckons dear 
Her reputation as a prophetess. 

Then by her pleasant art may she divine 
That it is thrice secured if she will clear 
My way to all felicity with **Yes" 
In answer to a small request of mine. 

LA COUP D'ESSAI 

This is the picture: Study of a shore 

Of sands impossible, and breakers green 

With edge of such foam-lace as ne'er was seen. 
(A silken flounce some stage Provencal wore 
It minds me of!) Goliath sea gulls soar 

Above a disc which is too pale I ween 

For Dian's pallid self, yet sheds a sheen 
Which brighter is than eye has 'held before. 

A sail I note, too near the rocks by halfj 
As white as it, the hand rests light as dew 

Upon my own, which wrought this **gem of Art." 
She waits for me to speak — I want to laugh — 
Then see the sky is of her sweet eyes' blue. 
And she for her salon may have my heart! 



119 



SPRING 

(^ After Me leader — some ig66 years.) 

At last the snow fast by the wall. 

Where longest it inspired my pen. 
Has sloped, and daffodillies tall 

Nod like shock-headed little men 

Upon the bank above my den. 
The street-piano makes its call 
Each morning, and to hut and hall 

That Tired Feeling's come again. 

But now the efficacy's spent 
Of tonics, nor will treacle blent 

Wisely with brimstone oust the de'il. 
He yields to this, and this alone- 
(A case in point egad's my own!) 

The sorcery that's in a wheel. 

THE SOP TO CERBERUS 

Dog of full fifty mouths have you not grown 
In all the years since Orpheus twanged his lyre 
Of dulcet strings and strains, t' appease your ire, 

A set of teeth that's equal to a bone? 

On festal days has Pluto never thrown 
A luscious chop to you, at his own fire 
Done to the proper turn, in way of hire? 

Or does your master live by bread alone? 

Let me be trebly sworn; /have been flung 
To you too often by the awful horde 

Of scribbling hacks. I cannot stand the laughter 
Of these daft mortals, though your ev'ry tongue 
Joined in one howl of hunger. For your board 
You may go to the Devil, Cer, hereafter. 



1 20 



TO CONSTANCE IN A PICTURE HAT 

What new conceit is this of sombre hue 

That hides the precious sunhght of your hair? 
The plumes funereal have no place there 

Among your dearest ringlets, in full view 

Of those whose ways with brightness you endue 

Best, most, when least adorned. Dear, have a care 
Lest they come soon to think the darkness fair 

Perceiving how less dark it is o'er you. 

You *sit' today? Ah! Well, I can believe 
Your beauty dazzles unaccustomed eyes — 

But sunshine offered, who takes clouds in part? 
You say you need both light and shade to weave 
The picture's cloth? Yourself the light supplies. 
Take all the shadow from my anxious heart. 

TO CONSTANCE ON ALL-HALLOW EVE 

You scout the nonsense of your weaker kin 
Who in the Future's book are fain to peer. 
And properly, no doubt, though 'tis not clear 

Indulging such chimeras is a sin! 

Tradition's ever seemed a sturdy tv^in 

To that Romance which you declare so dear. 
And all its fairy folk for many a year 

Have had a bright, warm place my heart within. 

Tou scorn the supernatural. / refresh 
My thirsty soul with myth and mystery. 
To dusty fact and shabby verity 

Ah! Constance here's no convert to enmesh. 
Shall I recant, think you, whilst I still see 

A witch before me in the very flesh? 



LA CHRYSANTHEME 

Diane, she carried to the play last night 
A bunch of autumn-roses which I claimed 
Held ev'ry color tongue or pen had named. 

One's petals as soft, summer clouds were white: 

One golden as the goddess' **bow of might"; 

And 'twixt these twain of heart' s-blood hue one flamed 
Whose gaudery a purple cluster shamed 

A-t:nt from Tyrian-deep to lilac light. 

And still I found to-day I had misdeemed 
For at the meet she wore as amulet 

A dozen buds whose hue I could not quote. 

Diane, she triumphed in my plight, it seemed. 

Till, when on homeward roads she mocked ** Not yet?' ' 
'* Fox-red " quoth I, ** the shade ofreynard's coat ! ' ' 

THE DYSPEPTIC TO HfS FAMILIAR 

O Dire! O Dread! that holds me still in thrall 
Through days that were beatic otherwise. 
Through nights felicitous but for the sighs 

Which mark the painful minutes as they fall; 

O Merciless! O Mad! I've yielded all — 

My hope, my rarebits, pastry, peace and pies! — 
But now, before my broken spirit flies, 

Grant me a boon, a boon exceeding small. 

O Prince Inquisitor! it is but this: 

Though in an hour again your torments rage. 
Merely a respite brief, an armistice 

In which to eat, with no pang to assuage. 

Suggestive of my awful vassalage. 
One more Thanksgiving dinner steeped in bliss. 



TO A WISHBONE 

O relic of our Christmas cheer ! 

When you are shortly called to play 

The role of arbiter, I pray 
Let it irrefutably clear 
From your dismemberment appear 

That Grace shall have whate'er she may 

In her own artless, heartless way 
Decide pre-eminently dear. 

This is not magnanimity. 

But simply that I think if you 

Grant her her wish she may, so blest. 
Elated by your augury. 

At last, as only she caji do. 

Grant mine, a thousand times expressed. 



123 



A NEW YEAR'S SONNET IN DIALOGUE 

Madge {brightly) 
Good morning! Did you watch the Old Year out? 

Tom (^testily) 
Good nothing! No! I watched the New Year in. 

Madge (zz? surprise^ 
Why, what's wrong, Tom? You're uglier than sin! 

Tom (^mea?nngly^ 
I'm not the o?iiy one knows how to pout! 

Madge {smilbig') 
That few excel you at it's clear! 

Tom {Jnsinuatiiigly) 

No doubt! 
I had a teacher — (^fiercely') Madge your humor's thin. 

Madge {co?iciIiatoriIy) 
I grant it and am ready to begin 
The day afresh — 

Tom (^sotto voce) 
Now for a wordy bout! — 
Madge {not heeding) 
By wishing you a year of happiness. 

Tom {dejectedly) 
Your wish is vain. Last night you rang the knell 
Of all my hopes. 

Madge {repentantly — after a pause) 
I'll kiss you 7iow — {in perturbation as Tom 
gets up) 

Not hard! 
Just as an earnest, neither more nor less. 
Of my — {hesitates) 

Tom {eagerly) 
Yes, yes, an earnest of your — Well? 
Madge {gravely) 
Sincerity and sisterly regard. 



124 



IN GALLIC BONDS 




^JTRJINS 
UNRECOGNIZED 

To him who years in vain has plied 

His brush, the saddest words of pen or tongue 
Are not **AIas! it might have been"; 

But these: **Unwept, unhonored and unhung". 

WOLF! WOLF! 

My wife smelled fire for twenty years 

Each night when she awoke; 
But when at last we had one, did 

Not even smell the smoke. 

A MODERN INSTANCE 

Kiissner, he vowed, should do her miniature 
Ere of the honeymoon was spent one half; 

But brought home to her, when a year had passed, 
A club-rate ticket for a photograph. 

A MARITAL NECESSITY 

The man w4io finds his married life 
From th' old too sudden a transition. 

Should have, without a doubt, a wife 
Like Caesar's, — quite above suspicion. 

ON A POETASTER 

**rm a poet of wonderful moods!" he declared. 

But after an hundred oiFences 
His Public retorted: **You're rather, poor wight, 

A poet of wonderful tenses!" 



AN OPTIMISTIC TAILOR 

Brown makes his work a shear delight. 

For, Hke the Spanish Don's, 
His peace of mind thrives well on cuts. 

And **all his geese are swans!" 

THE INFLUENCE OF ART 

For his seven prudent virgins he employed a single model 

But, having finished those. 
When he tried his best to press her into service for the 
others 

She refused point-blank to pose. 

AND THERE ARE OTHERS 

His wife counts this among her direst woes: 
That Jenkins can't, or wont turn out his toes. 
But what, in truth, embittereth her cup. 
Is the hard fact that he'll not turn them up! 

THE POWER OF SLANG 

The power transmutative of slang 

With wonder strikes me dumb; 
The man once labelled a ^sardine' 

A *lobster' has become ! 

THE NATION'S BIRTHDAY— AND MABEL'S 

Though cannons boom, and east, west, south and north 

*«01d Glory" at a patriot touch unfurls. 
With what heart can I celebrate m"^ Fourth, 

Seeing the Other Three are also girls? 



128 



TRIOLETS 
WINTER VIOLETS 

Here are violets, dear. 

And a Honiton collar. 
For your natal-day cheer. 
Here are violets dear. 
Dearest flow'rs of the year. 

(At just twelve for the dollar!) 
Here are violets, dear. 

And a Honiton collar. 

HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL 

Phcebe is only sixteen 

So there is hope for me yet. 
Though to-day's cold her demean, 
Phcebe is only sixteen: 
When twenty years she has seen 

She'll be less of the coquette. 
Phcebe is only sixteen 

So there is hope for me yet. 



129 



CONVERTS 

I 
I quite abhorred the minuet 

Till, last night, I saw her begin it. 
A walk to dirge-like music set — 
I quite abhorred the minuet; 
But now I never shall forget 

The matchless Grace that I saw in it. 
I quite abhorred the minuet 

Till, last night, I saw her begin it. 

II 

With heavy heart I watched them dance 

Till Amy tempted me to try it. 
These loons I could not countenance. 
With heavy heart I watched them dance. 
It grew light as her feet, her glance. 

When \ joined them — I can't deny it. 
With heavy heart I watched them dance 
Till Amy tempted me to try it. 



130 



RONDELS 

ON HER KITCHEN APRON 

This is the panoply in which she takes 

The household's strongest points with toothsome hail. 
The daybreak charge is in alluring cakes. 

At night, the lead of biscuits turns us pale. 

A host that in the still hours shall assail 

At noon lurks 'neath a pie's deceptive flakes. 
This is the panoply in which she takes 

The household's strongest points with toothsome hail. 

To mark her sweet importance when she bakes. 

To see her in this culinary veil. 

Is to forget Dyspepsia's awful flail. 
The night attacks, the mid-day pangs and aches. 
This is the panoply in which she takes! 

WHEN WOUND A FORESTER SO BLITHE 
A HORN 

When wound a forester so blithe a horn 

As did my fair beside the wood to-day? 
Not bugle echoing along the morn. 

That bears the tall, swart huntsman's breath away. 

Nor reeden pipe of elves in midnight play 
Could thrill me so, let me be trebly sworn. 
When wound a forester so blithe a horn 

As did my fair beside the wood to-day? 

If her clear trumpet no silk cords adorn. 

The perished harps of eld, while sweet were they. 

Shed no such sweets! With waiting of me worn. 

Through her dear hands she blew my name. Ah! say 

When wound a forester so blithe a horn 
As did my fair beside the wood to-day? 



131 



RONDEAUS 
REFLECTIONS 

Adele's cheval dares more than I! 

She frowns; a frown is her reply: 

She laughs (the ripple of a brook) — 
The glass returns her happy look. 

Or gives back mutely sigh for sigh. 

But my response to glances wry 
Must be a smile; a pitying eye 

Must still such sobs as erstwhile shook 
Adele's cheval. 

The mirror will not falsify 

E'en mildly. I am forced to — why! 

My pretty fibs would fill a book. 

Scorned still, indeed its cosy nook 
I envy and its favor high, 
Adele's cheval. 

MY CHIFFONIER 

My chiffonier, so dear to me 
In bachelor days, won Dorothy: 

**This cubby-hole will take my hat. 
The small drawer at the top — why that 
Is just the place for gloves!" said she. 

**You do not mind? I may? Merci! 
Down here I'll keep my lingerie; 

Veils here — ' ' and so she schemed it at 
My chiffonier. 

At first I owned a corner wee 
For *rings and things', but latterly 

My trunk's my wardrobe's habitat. 

It holds not even a cravat 
Yet it is still (by courtesy) 
My chiffonier. 

132 



THE HIGH COIFFURE 

{^A short ma?i loquitur^ 
The high coifFure, I read to-day, 
Is coming in, perhaps to stay; 

And think I see on Bertha's brow 

A golden coronet, and how 
Kate's curls will look *done' the new way. 

To little chits, like Grace and May, 
Whose height will grow with such display, 
'Twill be a boon, I must allow. 
The high coifFure. 

As for the tall and disti?igue. 

What need of tressy crowns have they? 

There's Blanche, for instance, who I vow 

Towers quite a head above me now! — 
Ah ! pity me should she essay 
The high coifFure. 

TO SKATE WITH HERMIA 

To skate with Hermia when stars frost-bright 

Gem all the canopy of winter's night. 
And nearer earth, as lovely as the skies. 
Beam soft on me still other stars — her eyes! — 

This is the sum of boreal delight! 

Though runners gleam where roads stretch hard and white, 
And dreamy measures to the dance invite. 

My choice shall ever be — a fond and wise — 
To skate — with her. 

A new Lysander, like the old, to flight 
I tempt my Hermia, and, through some rite 
Of fairyland, find where the moonlight hes 
A rosebud blowing though the snow-bird flies. 
Who would not leave all other joys (who might!) 
To skate with herP 



133 



AN EXPLANATION 

He passed the hat — and willingly, although 
He thoroughly abhors an outward show 
Of charity, believing that no good 
Results from pubhc giving — always would 
Prefer his alms in private to bestow. 

On this occasion, nathless, with a slow 
And measured step, expectance bringing low 
And disappointment to the neighborhood. 
He passed the hat. 

'Tis strange with his convictions he should go 

Out of his way to do it, but we grow 

At once in years and wisdom. Signs that could 
Not be by a worse dolt misunderstood 

Pvcminded him 'twas April first, and so 
He passed the hat. 

TO BERNICE IN LENT 

Lenten maid, downcast, demure. 
Where are the smiles that were lure 

O' those by their sweetness that swear ? 

Is it writ you must forbear 
Smiling ? your eyes' light obscure ? 

A nun it has turned you, and your 
House to a cloister, and, sure. 
All my old happiness there. 
Lent unmade! 

Come now, your posing is poor! 
Confess it, your thoughts are en tour, — 

While your lips move through a pray'r — 

To a gay some otherwhere! 
Your moods! This one's worst to endure, 
Lenten-made. 



134 



ON MYRA'S HEART 
This House To Let ! — the agency 
Is Cupid's, and he holds the key; 
The tenant must be young and hale, 
Honest, of course, and without fail 
One he can recommend to me. 

Nay, Croesus, take your gold and flee 
Back to your brokers instantly. 

You're misinformed, it's not For Sale!- 
This House To Let! 

If I can find the proper he 
A life-long lease I'll let it be. 

Construction modern, nothing frail; 

In good repair — a mere detail — 
And warm — that I will guarantee! 
This House To Let ! 

WHAT HARRIE SAID 

What Harrie said I could not guess — 

I, at the furthermost recess 

Of the long drawing-room, between 
The white of curtains and the green 

Of palms, — a screen of loveliness. 

No quidnunc I, and yet, no less 
I longed to know, I must confess. 
Since all unwitting on the scene. 
What Harrie said. 

Unheeding physical distress 

I crouched till Mabel's whispered '*)Vi" 
Stole through the afternoon serene. 
And then how much could I misween. 

When she returned his warm caress. 
What Harrie said? 



135 



WHEN THE KISS HAD BEEN TAKEN 

That I tried to shun the snare 
You'll admit if you are fair. 

Without lifting eyes or head 

All the afternoon I've read 
Here, — you pouted over there. 

I tried every plan, I swear — 
When I felt that I could dare; 
Yours, of counting ten, instead. 
That I tried, too! 

But when you leaned o'er my chair 
I could not resist that pair 

Of sweet lips although they plead. 

And now that your worst is said, 
I am sorry, I declare. 
That I tried to. 

THE TEA SHE BREWS 

The tea she brews is awful drink: 
(Imported from Ceylon, I think. 

Or other Oriental shore!) 

I never had the like before. 
Unpalatable, quite, as ink. 

At any rate I do not shrink 
From quaffing. Cup on cup I sink, — 
I do so love to see her pour 
The tea she brews. 

Or stoup or glass may clash and clink 
With nectars brimmed that flash and twink— 
Le, wane shall take me nevermore 
While she besweets with bounteous store 
Of smiles that part her lips' deep pink. 
The tea she brews. 



136 



OF A FANCY SKATER 

What a figure he cut! ('Twas an **8" so he said!) 

Though the glittering pond's was a generous bed. 

He found it well-filled and he could not evade 

The facts that his trousers had sufl^ered a shade 

And his coat was in need of a needle and thread. 

To *do' a spread-eagle he shortly essayed. 
Encouraged thereto by the smile of a maid. 

But alas! and alack! 'twas himself that he spread — 
What a figure he cut! 

We teheed and we 'rahed and he called us ill-bred. 

Yet anon, his ambition not utterly dead. 

Set out with more skill than he yet had displayed 
To do the back roll upon one shining blade. 

And (my kodak at home!) promptly stood on his head 
What a figure he cut ! 

HAS LENT A CHARM 

Has Lent a charm that men and maids should flee 

The worldly ways that ring again with glee 

And go {pro tern) by quiet paths instead? 

The cowl but ill-befits Karl's curly head. 
And Ursula, a sorry nun is she I 

The yearly thirst for goodness is to me 
A baffling, dark, perennial mystery 

Which often deeper grows when I have said. 
Has Lent a charm? 

To Kate, at least, whose cruel coquetry 
Has given place to kindness frank and free. 

And who pours balm upon the wounds that bled 
First by her lingual sword-thrusts deep and dread. 
The penitential season verily. 
Has lent a charm. 



137 



AS GRACE UNPACKED 

As Grace unpacked a fine defence 

She put up for her negligence — 

Not writing — * thought I would7i t care!'' 
But from my seat, — the lowest stair — 

I vowed 1 didy with vehemence. 

A pause. With wistful eloquence: 
**/V/z glad Pm home P^ she said, and thence 
Our talk took flights three cannot share. 
As Grace unpacked. 

Say, could I meet sweet penitence 
With hints of cold indifference? 

Not I! I straightway shook Despair 

To live again, for everywhere 
Rose hues stole into evidence 
As Grace unpacked. 

WHAT COULD SHE DO 

If I kissed you would you be in- 
Dignant with me — make resistance? 

Flush and blush and order me in 
Tragic tones to *keep my distance'? 

Break your pretty voice in two 
Calling someone to assist you — 

Tell me, sweet, \N\).d.x. would you do 
If I kissed you ? 

If you kissed me I might scold you 

Under certain circumstances; 
And at more than arms-length hold you 

To discourage your advances. 
But if none were near but you — 

As at this minute — to assist me. 
Tell me, please, what could I do 
If you kissed me? 



13S 



A DISSEMBLER 

**To the letter that you sent 

I have not a word to say. 
All your keep-sakes, tear-besprent, 

I return this very day. 
I've been true and you protest, dear. 

That I might have loved you better; 
But I follow your behest, dear. 
To the letter." 

(To the letter.) *'You have freed 
Me from bonds that 'gan to chafe 

And a harmless sort decreed 

Larks that lately seemed unsafe. 

Ev'ry time that you are read you'll 
Loose another galsome fetter. 

And I'll follow the old schedule 
To the letter." 

THE MAIDENS TO ST. VALENTINE 
Hail! Saint Valentine, hail to you! 

'Spite of your ill-natured flings. 
Modesty had tacked a veil to you 

But for your beautiful wings. 
Let those who choose to, make light of you. 

We never cared for a pale saint; 
Love take new life at first sight of you. 
Hale saint! 

Hail! Saint Valentine, hail to you! 

Eke to the gauds you bestow — 
Saying sweet things must grow stale to you! 

Why you enravish us so 
Never has been very clear to us. 

Must be because you're a male saint 
That you're surpassingly dear to us. 
Hail Saint! 



139 



TWO RONDEAUS 

Ante-Nuptial 

If you love me I'm content. 

Life with you is worth the living: 

Yours my heart; I'll ne'er repent, 
Ne'er, I'm sure, regret the giving. 

Little reck I when you're near. 

What's beneath, around, above me— 

What is sorrow, care, or fear. 
If you love me ? 

Post- Nuptial 

If you love me you would not 

See me look so worn and threadbare; 

•Seems you wouldn't care a jot 

If I went with feet and head bare! 

Take your old arm from my neck. 
Kisses neither boot nor glove me ! 

Write me out a decent check 
If you love me. 



140 



AS THE WORLD GOES 
I 

When she married, often she 

Forcefully asseverated. 
On the threshold-throne she'd be 

Sovereign sole, nor dominated 
By her chosen minister: 

Others might be held and harried; 
But no man would dictate her 
When she married! 

When she married — as she did — 

Found her throne of Love rose-hidden;. 

And she walked as she was bid 
Without knowing she was bidden. 

He could reign enough for two. 
And her maiden plans miscarried: 

She became the gentlest shrew. 
When she married. 

II 

When he wedded, so he said, 

He^ d none of the bonds that tie men ! 

She, his choice, would know who led 
Ere they'd quit the shrine of Hymen.. 

She might make and mend his things; 
See him fed and softly bedded: 

He would hold the house-purse strings 
When he wedded! 

When he wedded, he would check 
Butchers', grocers' bills, and bakers';. 

And would find him no soft geek. 
Milliners and mantua-makers ! 

He would manage stern and well. 
Marriage he in nowise dreaded; 

But the records do not tell 
Whe?i he wedded! 



141 



UNDERWRITE APPLE BOUGHS 

(^Rojideau Redouble) 

Under white apple-boughs Roger and I 
Romped in the grass with the sweet blossoms sown 

When slight, pale Lois came buoyantly by. 
Joined us and made our fine frolic her own. 

What was her voice like? A bell's dulcet tone! 
What were her eyes like? Why, surely the sky! 

We were leal subjects about her green throne. 
Under white apple-boughs, Roger and L 

When were winds so like a lover's soft sigh? 
When has the sun so entrancingly shone? 

Thus did I question, while Lois, half shy. 
Romped in the grass with the sweet blossoms sown. 

Clouds from above us hke magic were blown, 
Arcady stretched past the reach of the eye. 

Where, just before, the grey orchard had grown. 
When slight, pale Lois came buoyantly by. 

How dark days drag, and how happy ones fly! 
So the bright hours and happy have flown 

Since Lois, failing, with spirits still high. 
Joined us and made our fine frolic her own. 

Lois seeks health in a kindlier zone; 
Roger, by some hasty hand, did he die 

One autumn day, and I'm here all alone — 
O for the dole in a year that may lie ! — 

Under white apple-boughs. 



14: 



THE TRIBULATIONS Ox^ TRYPHENA 
(^Patitoum) 

When Tryphie checks the month's accounts 

Che waxes wroth and eloquent. 
The butcher's overcharged an ounce. 

The grocer's bill is *ofF' a cent! 

She waxes wroth and eloquent — 

Did we have sweetbreads on the first? 

The grocer's bill is *ofF' a cent! 
Well, if this isn't quite the worst! 

Did we have sweetbreads on the first? 

Just see I'l you can make that out ! 
Well, li this isn't quite the worst — 

To debit us with sauer-kraut ! 

Just see if you can make that out! 

The very /dea makes me ill! 
To debit us with sauer-kraut ! 

This must be Guggenheimer's bill! 

The very /dea makes me ill ! 

And cheese — we never /ook at cheese! 
This must be Guggenheimer's bill — 

O have a /itt/e patience, please ! 

And cheese — we ?iever look at cheese! 

What shall, what can a woman do? 
O have a little patience, please! 

Who will I talk to if not you? 

What shall, what ca?i a woman do 

When every, blessed thing goes wrong? 

Who will I talk to if not youF 

You know mv jierves are far from strong! 



'43 



When every blessed thing goes wrong, 
( Stuffed dates at fifty cents a pound?) 

You kiiow my nerves diXt far from strong! 

(The wretch! Said he'd send 'samples' 'round!). 

Stuffed dates ^t fifty cents a pound I 

Now where does Jane use so much lard? 

(The wretch said he'd send samples 'round!) 
To keep my temper's pretty hard! 

Now where does Jane use so much lard? 

The butcher's overcharged an ounce! 
(To keep my temper's pretty hard 

When Tryphie checks the months accounts!) 



144 



BALLADES 




BALLADE OF ENTREATY 

(PHYLLIS TO DEMOPHOON.) 

By what calamitous mischance 

Your homeward galley came to keel 
Of Sithon's bays the blue expanse 

But cold Neptunus can reveal. 

Nor he, nor mightier Zeus can heal 
These sapping wounds that yawn apace. 

Till you for passionate woe or weal 
Come back, my Love, come back to Thrace. 

Your hero-sire's deliverance 

Though she had compassed with the zeal 
Of love, no tender sustenance 

To Ariadne did he deal 

Pang-torn at Naxos, and I feel 
Than hers more grievous is my case. 

Ere Madness sets on me its seal 
Come back, my Love, come back to Thrace ! 

My pleasant shores lie in a trance 
Deep as the winters that congeal 

The blood whose poor inheritance 
Tenebrious Scythia is. The steel 
Of dolorous skies strikes till I reel 

The heart you wakened, and this place 
Re-echoes with my vain appeal: 

Come back, my Love, come back to Thrace. 

You Zeus made comelier than leal; 

Me, for an almond-tree's embrace 
For aye — like that whereby I kneel — 

Ere you come back, my Love, to Thrace. 



'47 



BALLADE OF LONGING 

(^Ballade d double refrain) 
Regnant, with glitter and glare, 

Dust, and a host of deceits. 
Summer burns red in the air; 

Fever stalks mad through the streets. 

O for the shore wise retreats! 
O for the salt breeze that yields 

Speed to the pleasuring fleets! — 
O for the green of the fields ! 

Down from his zenith-high lair 

Blaze of the sun-lion beats. 
Here one reels, one's swooning there — 

Fever stalks mad through the streets. 

O for a lake's silvern sheets 
Skirted with groves! For deep wealds 

Dowered with resinous sweets ! 
O for the green of the fields ! 

Here in the park off the square 

Stretches a shadow that cheats 
The faint to its sultrier snare. 

Fever stalks mad through the streets. 

O for a wood that repeats 
Bird-songs and brook-songs and shields 

Man from these merciless heats! 
O for the green of the fields ! 

Scorching each soul that it meets. 
Fever stalks mad through the streets. 
Far from the power it wields, 
O for the green of the fields ! 



148 



BALLADE DES PAPILLONS 

{Irregular) 

Wealth is a sweet! 

( How can it be ? ) 
Glittering cheat. 

False as the sea. 

Hail ! Poverty ! 
Wealth is a thrall! 

And what are we ? 
Butterflies all. 

Fame is a sweet ! 

(How can it be?) 
Worth's dealt defeat, 

Th' indign, victory. 

False as the sea. 
Fame is a thrall! 

And what are we? 
Butterflies all. 

Love is a sweet! 

(How can it be ?) 
Ah! fair Deceit, 

Poison not me. 

False as the sea. 
Love is a thrall! 

And what are we ? 
Butterflies all. 

Life is a sweet 

Tinctured with gall! 
And what are we ? 

Butterflies all. 



149 



BALLADE OF MODERN LOVE 

And still we play deep at the game of hearts. 

As did they of the courts those old dim days. 
Our Romeos bleed of the coy god's darts; 

Our troubadours in amatory phrase 

Disburden them: our knights, with eyes a-blaze. 
Go armed with roses, comfits; this their vaunt: 

**As ours, no swain has gone such loyal ways. 
Since leal Leander swam the Hellespont!" 

Dulcinea, she models toothsome tarts; 

Rowena goes to shop in yellow chaise. 
Who erstwhile queened the lists. Of warring arts 

Poor ken has Helen; but o'er- well she plays 

Sonata, fugue: Ruth paints as well as prays. 
Staunch-true is each, each clouds as little daunt 

As any Hero of the virelais. 
Since leal Leander swam the Hellespont. 

And here some power impishly disparts 

Men's views of modern love, for one inveighs 

Against all passion while his neighbor smarts 
'Til he has lavished on it ardent praise: 
And this year's love 's a jest, churl Tertius says. 

Yet, in our Age, despite the jibe, the taunt. 

We love as none have loved, — or men or fays, — 

Since leal Leander swam the Hellespont. 

Prince, whether Love is strengthened or decays. 
My sweet and I are — and no more we want — 

The happiest pair, whatever goes or stays, 
Since leal Leander swam the Hellespont ! 



150 



BALLADE OF THE TENTH MUSE 

**Be thou the Tenth Muse: ten times more in worth 
Than those old Nine which rhymers invocateP ' 

— Shakespeare, Sonnet XXXVIIL 

Not in the Heav'n-girt house of Jupiter, 
Him who begat the worshipt, tuneful Nine, 

Is there an one that I, at point of spur 

Or stretched on rack, would own as muse of mine. 
Though in her charms she rivalled Proserpine, 

In wisdom, Pallas. I refuse 

Else than a dark-eyed mortal to enshrine. 

And, sweetheart, thou wilt be my muse. 

Young Erato, once I loved fondly her, — 

She was inconstant as the April shine ! 
Urania, star-crowned, did nathless err 

Who wed with Bacchus, reeking of his wine. 

And Clio whispered me a tearful line. 
Her gore-dipt quill would have me use: 

Ah! brighter inspiration's that of thine. 
And — sweetheart, thou wilt be my muse? 

Theirs be the palm, the laurels and the myrrh: 

The lute, the flute and services condign. 
Thou shalt have violets and lavender. 

And hyssop sweet, and white-belled honey-bine 

Those night-black, wilful tresses to confine: 
A homage paid thee that renews 

With each new day, nor fails at Youth's decline; 
And, sweetheart, thou wilt be my muse. 

My love, thou art, as sweethearts are, divine; 

Yet more the rhymer-swain pursues: 
A Pow'r to invocate; a muse, in fine. 

And, sweetheart, thou wilt be ;wy muse! 



151 



BALLADE OF CHIVALRY 

The mace, the gauntlet and the keen, bright lance. 

Are only relics of the days that were; 
And Rozinante in a mild way grants 

That oats are sumptuous equinal fare. 

Blithe Robin Hood has lost his whilom care 
Of mesdames lorn and men in poor estate. 

And fewer grow the knightly ones who dare 
Young Raleigh's quick conceit to emulate. 

To-day, in lieu of those old, true gallants. 

Are modish swains through monocles that stare; 
Whose best exploit is deftness in the dance. 

To close a draughty door, to place a chair. 

To lift a handkerchief, to bravely bear 
Through stifling crush an ice upon a plate — 

These are the pretty offices we share 
Young Raleigh's quick conceit to emulate. 

Who of these years can weave a wild romance 

When knights are not, and squires serve otherwhere] 

When most distracted maids are debutantes. 
Each frowning battlement a rose parterre. 
Moats tennis-courts, and castles all of air — 

The only tourneys that we celebrate. 

In drawing-rooms, — the lists where we repair 

Young Raleigh's quick conceit to emulate. 

Prince, read your' lady e not from vellums rare 
The thrilling tales our age that antedate 

Lest she may mourn we have no time to spare 
Young Raleigh's quick conceit to emulate. 



A BALLADE OF MANY LOVES 

The way of hearts is hilly 
And hard to gauge methinks; 

Cecilia loves a silly, 

Cassandra loves a sphinx : 

Wee Stella loves to play high jinks 

With me — her doting daddy; 
Selena loves the links. 

And Kitty loves a caddy. 

Pale Charlotte loves Chantilly, 

(From creamy lace she shrinks,) 
And vi^hen the vv^eather's chilly 

Amelia loves her minks. 

Rebecca loves her bashful Binks, 
Honora loves her Paddy, 

Helene loves skating rinks. 
And Kitty loves a caddy. 

Sw^eet Alice loves a lily, 

Penelope loves pinks. 
And Dinah, willy-nilly. 

She loves her fiinny kinks. 

The baby loves forbidden chinks. 
Mamma her blue-eyed laddie. 

Dear Granny forty v^inks. 
And Kitty loves a caddy. 



Kate's an old-fashioned minx. 
Consistent — never faddy ! — 

She loves the tea she drinks. 
And so she loves the caddy. 



53 



BALLADE FOR BEDTIME 

Come, little girl, it's nearly eight 

And time that you were tucked in bed! 
Put up the book, the tale will wait 

Until the hours of dark are sped. 

The moon is young, and daylight's dead. 
But from the grate the red-gold gleams 

Of fire-light on the floor are shed — 
Good-night, my child, and pleasant dreams! 

A resting place have small and great — 

A hutch for Bunny, stall for Ned, 
A nest for Robin and his mate. 

Puss has a cozy rug of red. 

For Bossy fine, sweet straw is spread. 
In silver beds lie sleepy streams. 

This pillow's for a tired head — 
Good night, my child, and pleasant dreams! 

Love ably monitors our gate. 

There's naught for you to fear or dread: 
The Bogie-man is out of date. 

And fairy-folk are all well-bred. 

May your dear feet be ever led 
By paths which catch the sun's best beams — 

(Pray, Nurse, speak low and softly tread!) 
Good night, my child, and pleasant dreams! 



She sleeps, God bless her, and my thoughts are fled 
To that dim time — how dim it seems! — 

When my dear mother bent o'er me and said: 
** Good-night, my child, and pleasant dreams!^^ 



^54 



BALLADE OF FROCKS AND PINAFORES 

Anon Jack slays his giants still. 

And Misses MufFet from the shade 
Of deft Arachne scamper will, 

I doubt me not, while rhymes are made; 

The stubborn Moll, with hoe and spade. 

Fills her old role of botanist. 

The goose still plays at alchemist; 
The mouse, sad havoc in our clocks 

As in — that craved no exorcist — 
The days of pinafores and frocks. 

The runners glisten on the hill 

Sheened in the folds of Frost's brocade: 
The coasters' voices, they are shrill 

As when on hearth-rug deep I stayed 

In ambush with my brave brigade. 

And named each metal martialist. 

O time of sweets none could resist. 
And gingerbread in cupboard crocks! 

Their skies were rose and amethyst, 
The days of pinafores and frocks. 

Sad years have come and gone, until 
Meseems all mirth's a masquerade; 

And all that's left of loves grown chill 

Are scars brought from the sweet crusade. 
Friends waxen dour as Moll, betrayed; 
And giants, I have found, exist 
That o'ertop Jack's. But who insist 

Life's all a huge Pandoran box. 

Those honeyed days have surely missed, — 

The days of pinafores and frocks. 

Fortuna, give me what ye list 

Of Fame and all good things ye wist. 

Ye can't restore my childhood locks 
Nor bring me back the sunshine-kist. 

The days of pinafores and frocks. 

155 



BALLADE OF ACADIE 

Who sail o'er seas to worlds begrimed and old. 
And worship at their altars of decay. 

What hath so 'witched your eyes that you behold 
Such charms, such beauty there? Nor imp nor fay 
Could wean your footsteps or your sight away 
From this sweet land, had you but slightly seen 
Its gentle hills in cope of summer green. 

Or trod its fields where peace and plenty be. 
This is Rest's temple and Content's demesne. 

This brooch upon the bosom of the sea. 

Here, set in rim of rocks and sunlight gold, 
A lavish nature makes her wide display 

Of every scenic jewel tongue has told. 
Or quill or pen has written of, or may 
In far-off centuries anew portray. 
Like silver ribbons, rivers run between 
Their wooded banks, where never dole nor threne 

Nor din of marts may mar the melody 

Of birds. As they, to chant its praise I'm keen — 

This brooch upon the bosom of the sea. 

'Tis not the warrior alone that's bold. 

Because his blood flows for his natal clay. 

There are stout hearts, whose trials manifold 
Find them increased in vigor day by day. 
Theirs is the meed of all earth's cheers, I say. 
Such hearts have made this land a shrine serene 
Where happiness from highest height to sheen 

Of ocean foam reigns with prosperity; 

Not the least treasure of its gracious queen. 

This brooch upon the bosom of the sea. 

Prince, close your caskets. All the gems they screen 
Despite their cost are lustreless and mean. 

Come for a season and possess with me 
Far from your court's mad tumult, spite and spleen. 

This brooch upon the bosom of the sea. 

156 



BALLADE OF ANNISQUAM 

I crave not Tempe's vale nor Enna's plain 
With all their charm and sweet invitingness; 

Nor do most restless seasons find me fain 

On Hybla's fragrant ways my feet to press. 
I know a spot still free of show's excess, 
I know a purple bank where wild thyme grows; 
I know a garden, in its pales that shows 

Old-fashioned flow'rs in banks bestowed. 

Dear Summer-land! And these your lover knows, 

The high, white dunes, the willow road. 

If to the blue ^gean's shore the strain 
Of Pan, his pipe, comes overhills, no less 

The heartwrung wail of Thetis in her pain 
Uprises from the wave, big with distress. 
But here, where far-outstretched to caress 
A happy sea, the land a strong arm throws. 
Is heard no anguished sighs, no echoed woes. 

No sound that tears and sorrow bode. 

No, only song and, where the salt breeze blows. 

The high, white dunes, the willow road. 

Out at the eastern point the wider main 
Pays to the rocky shore its wild address. 

The whistling buoy's o'er-dolorous refrain, [stress 

That warns 'gainst awful reefs, booms through the 
Of wind and weather such as ne'er transgress 
In peace-girt Annisquam. There is the prose, [goes. 
Here, the sweet rhyme. There the black schooner 

Here, flashing sails take up, unload 

Light hearts that love beach, cove and blossomed close. 

The high, white dunes, the willow road. 

Prince, there are Parks and Piers, ;^ou may have those. 
Where beauish garb obtains and beauties pose. 

Give mey untaken of the modey 
At Annisquam my yacht, my garden rows. 

The high, white dunes, the willow road. 

157 



BALLADE OF THE GOLDEN STATE 

Cythera desolated over-seas 

Lies, all her storied charms afar dispread 

On torrid winds and reeking in the lees 

Of Neptune's salt sea-wine: Her lovers dead 
'Tombed in the jagged reef, their vows unsaid 
For everness of eons. There is moan 
In ev'ry surge that tumbles o'er her throne 

Once set on hills that bathed in airs divine. 

But better things than she e'er shewed are shown 

On this thrice happy strand of song and shine. 

The golden fruit of the Hesperides 

From reach of mortal ken is faded, fled: 

The blossoms that made drunken Hybla's bees 
With surfeit sweet of sweets, long since are shed 
Arcadian wines and ways are soured or sped; 
But here are groves of gold bound in a zone 
Of bloom as honey-sweet as Hybla's own! 

The deep delights of Cypris' kingdoms nine 
Are Sodom-apples by the pleasures known 

On this thrice happy strand of song and shine. 

My strong, young mariner, ship an ye please 

To unsunned, blustrous bays where sails are shred; 

Or summer, if ye list, in Arctic bise. 

Or draw equatorward the journey's thread. 
When grog is plenty and the mate's abed 
No shrieking gales ye mind from east'ard blown. 
But strength will fail and hours grow lorn and lone. 

Then, make the last port on this shore of mine ! 
Here's Youth's Renaissance, — care forever flown. 

On this thrice happy strand of song and shine. 

Prince, leave the Orient's ashes and atone 

For misspent years. The East is haughty grown! 

We lack her tumult, tinsel, manners fine; 
But Beauty speaks from peak, from tree, from stone. 

On this thrice happy strand of song and shine. 

158 



BALLADE OF FALILA AND WESTERN DAYS 

(^Ballade en guise de Rondeau) 
Falila, sweet-eyed, of far-distant plain. 

Paw-paw and May-apple ripe where she strays. 
Drear nevermore are the hours of the rain 

While bright smile-sunshine upon her lips plays. 

When my life led me in uncheerful ways. 
She stanched the torrent of trouble and pain, — 

Chicfest of joys in the dear western days, 
Falila! 

Falila, bright-eyed, O long is the train 

Ready with voices to sound in her praise ! 
Such is her music, that birds of the lane 

Shrink from the echoing of their own lays. 

I hear the words of her modest denays: 
Coy, unassuming, unboasting, unvain. 

Thus were you e*er in the glad western days, 
Falila! 

Falila, dark-eyed, the fathomless main 
Is not so deep as her heart: and the rays 

Of the noon sun have a something to gain 

'Ere they can cope with her winsomeness. Stays 
Each favored one at her court, and obeys 

Her sweet behests with no thought to complain: 
Just as I did in the dead western days, 
Falila! 



Prince, does my poorly-writ verses contain 
That which the worshipping lover betrays ? 

Ah! my heart's bound with a light, golden chain 
Since I knew her in the dear western days, — 
Falila. 



'59 



BALLADE OF THE AVENUE 

Feathers and flowers and lace. 

Velvet of wonderful pile; 
Worn with as wonderful grace 

Furs from far sea and defile: 

Gems from lands south of the Nile, 
Broadcloth and silk and brocade — 

This is the march past of Style, 
This is the Easter Parade. 

Fashion's the god of the race 

Crowding this marvellous mile. 
Here is a quieter place. 

Pray let us stand for awhile. 

Where, save on Gotham's gay isle. 
Is such display of wealth made? 

This is the march past of Style, 
This is the Easter Parade. 

There is a beautiful face: — 

In all this festival file 
Not a thing's sordid or base. 

Yet not one truly worth while! 

Grandeur and gossip and guile. 
Trinkets and frills that must fade — 

This is the march past of Style, 
This is the Easter Parade. 



Cupid, how bravely you smile. 
But you're de trop I'm afraid! 

Here are no hearts you may wile — 
This is the Easter Parade. 



i6o 



BALLADE OF MARCH WINDS 

In embryo riding each gust 

Of March is a hundred diseases. 
Willy-nilly you're out for the dust; 

The Public at large coughs and sneezes. 

Your neighbor's asthmatic — he wheezes — 
Go South? How he wishes he could! 

But the doctor collecting fat fees is — 
It's an ill wind blows nobody good! 

A corner! (Well ! laugh if you must.) 

My Derby's the sport of the breezes 
'Till rescued by one (I mistrust) 

Who a stranger to four-o'clock-teas is. 

Sore his need of a biscuit and cheese is — 
That look can't be misunderstood — 

And I think, as his guerdon he seizes. 
It's an ill wind blows nobody good! 

The poet is sadly nonplussed. 

No flower on his favorite leas is: 
His Muse, never very robust. 

Collapses when March 'round her knees is. 

He longs for new leaves on the treeses, * 
He longs for new wings in the wood; 

He can't sing of spring while he freezes! 
(It's an ill wind blows nobody good!) 

Adele's on my arm (which she squeezes) 

Charmant in her Saxony hood. 
She may snuggle as close as she pleases — 

It's an ill wind blows nobody good! 



By Special License, 

i6i 



BALLADE OF THE BORROWER MONTH 

That month whose signet is The Ram 

Rules madly as an early Czar: 
Between the Lion and the Lamb 

She crushes all beneath her car. 

Her stinging knouts leave many a scar 
That burn and throb with fever heat; 
We're only serfs spurned by her feet 

Through dark, interminable days; 
But though she blind me with her sleet, 

I love March for her mad, wild ways. 

A child of summer though I am. 

And prize the honey in her jar. 
Some cantrip in their bitter dram 

Endears these winds that rend and mar. 

Bare branches, or a jasmine star 
That makes the whole world soft and sweet? 
To struggle up a stormy street. 

Or drift unhatted down blue bays? 
Your choice is mine — but, I repeat, 

I love March for her mad, wild ways. 

When Leo's roar becomes a sham. 

The Lamb still bleating from afar, 
March hoists a crocus oriflamme 

And shows how lovely tulips are. 

Then, sheathing every scimitar 
Wherewith she pierced us, makes retreat 
In borrowed braveries — O cheat ! — 

Young April's tears, a smile of May's. 
Yet pardoning this last deceit 

I love March for her mad, wild ways. 

Dear Alison, the song's complete 
And all for you — for you, my sweet. 

Are like the month it seeks to praise. 
Ah ! but remember, I entreat, 

I lo-ue March for her mad, wild ways. 

162 



BALLADE OF APRIL WEATHER 

Now March has sheathed her knives, and sheened her lead 
Of sea and sky in gold of richest vein; 

And leagues of smiling wold are overspread 

With new, enchanting green. The scars, the stain 
Of wintry havoc on broad fields; the bane 
Of Arctic-bitter days, their blinding sleet, — 
The mem'ry of 't, — these do evanish fleet; 

For Winter totters from his tott'ring throne. 
And, back from highway rut and paven street, 

Deep in dim woods anemones are blown. 

Of thaw the slow drip, drip, from eaves o'erhead 
Tells softly, dashing from the sill to pane. 

Soon will be large, blue violets, instead 

Of high, white drifts that by the ways have lain. 
Foreshows approach of Zephyr glist'ning vane. 
He of the fragrant breath and train replete 
With honeyed days. The flying, homeward feet 

Are slower grown since winds no more make moan; 
And, Earth again doffed of her winding-sheet. 

Deep in dim woods anemones are blown. 

The show'rs, wrought warp and weft of silver thread, 
In frequent falls they drench the willing plain 

Until, where swollen brook and river wed. 
Seems Thessaly beneath Deucalion's reign 
In miniature. Though tears flow now amain 
Will follow smiles, and eftsoons we shall meet 
For morning chats upon the garden-seat. 

Of cynics scorned, of city-bound unknown, 
Awakened by the warm rain's gentle beat. 

Deep in dim woods anemones are blown. 

Love, to wear hot-house roses is unmeet 
When April weather comes back to its own: 

For see! besides the roses, times more sweet. 

It to your cheek restores, in our retreat 
Deep in dim woods, anemones are blown. 

163 



BALLADE OF SHROVETIDE 

{^Paficake Tuesday) 

The day of cakes and no brisk cook 

To charm us by her sorcery — 
By magic learned from no black book. 

An all-unwritten recipe! 

A plague take recreant cooks, say we ! 
Who'll minister to our distress? 

A volunteer! Lo! it is she — 
Perilla, in cuisine undress! 

The batter's ready. Give a look! 

What's this, pray, if not alchemy? 
It gurgles like a happy brook 

From cup to griddle, steadily. 

And now she turns them — ofie! two! three! 
Brown-golden spheres of toothsomeness, 

(Her cheeks might well befool a bee!) 
Perilla in cuisine undress. 

And now — hot plates! while from its nook 

The nectar of the maple tree 
Is brought, and taken from its hook 

The firkin pays a splendid fee. 

Add what you will — a pot of tea, 
A juicy rasher, — I confess 

The picture'' s feast enough for me — 
Perilla in cuisine undress. 



Come Lent with your long litany, 
I shall not chafe at your duress. 

For every sombre hour I'll see 
Perilla in cuisine undress. 



164 



BALLADE OF A SUMMER NIGHT 

*'Sing lullaby, as women do 

Wherewith they bring their babes to rest.''' 

— George Gascoigne{i^j7-iS77- ) 

To end is drawn 

The long, hot day; 
The light is gone 

And Night's cool gray 

Cloaks hill and bay. 
**Let worries go 

Till morning's ray. 
Hush sweet, by-low." 

Up midnight's lawn 

Black shadows stray; 
The long streets yawn 

As dark as they. 

**Why wakeful stay 
Eyes, glist'ning so? 

Forget your play ! 
Hush sweet, by-low." 

And on and on 

Night goes its way 
Towards rosy dawn 

That shall betray 

The soon-grown sway 
Of Fever, foe 

That brings dismay. 
**Hush sweet, by-low." 

Pray mother, pray. 

The heart beats slow; 
Nor cease to say 
**Hush sweet, by-low." 

165 



BALLADE OF BLUE SEAS 

'Grant me a small boat's captaincy 

Whose twenty virgin feet 
Still dance beside her builder's quay. 

The snow upon her sheet: 
And though the world ashore is sweet 

Inside one garden pale. 
With glad dispatch I'll join your fleet 

Blue summer seas to sail. 

How much misled 's the zealot he 

That pedals through the heat 
An hundred long, parched miles to be 

In at a dusty meet. 
When there below the thirsty street. 

Rocked in the strong, salt gale. 
The yachts invite us — nay! entreat — 

Blue summer seas to sail. 

The purple-black of woods to me 

Is but a sombre cheat; 
The arbor's fading canopy 

A leafy, poor deceit: 
The gentle lap and rhythmic beat 

Of waves — these drown all bale! 
It's joy that can't grow obsolete. 

Blue summer seas to sail. 



But Flora dear, no Joy's complete 
Without ji'z// Fly your gaol — 

This cushioned, drowsy window-seat 
Blue summer seas to sail. 



1 66 



BALLADE OF A CITY BOWER 

Of bosky dells with brown and silver brooks 

Pipes numberless perennially shrill. 
For publishment betimes in sightly books. 

Songs breathing righteous praise of bough and rill. 

These are fair spots, but here God's gracious will, 
A stone's throw from the city's heart and din. 

Gives me as fair — let me deserve it still ! — 
My upper window where the elm looks in. 

They love dark things who celebrate the rooks 
That build in woody places mirk and chill: 

My neighbor, too, misled, on sturdy hooks 
A painted cage hangs from his window-sill 
And hears not in its captive's ev'ry trill 

Pleas for the liberty he may not win. 

Those are free, lusty throats with tune that fill 

My upper window where the elm looks in. 

A glist'ring, turquoise bay it overlooks, 
My pleasant bower, and a gentle hill 

Gilt with wild mustard blossoms. There are nooks 
Beyond them, doubtless, which a little skill 
In ballad-making must misprize. To thrill 

The world with perfect lays let them begin 

Who can. This theme befits an humbler quill — 

My upper window where the elm looks in. 

When day is over at the rumbling mill 
And slipped the gyves of office discipline. 

Here is an exorcist for ev'ry ill — 

My upper window where the elm looks in. 



167 



BALLADE OF THE SUMMER PARK 

Here by the gate the elms are tall 

And deep the shadow rugs that lie 
Beneath my feet. No statued hall. 

No Obelisk can satisfy; 

Nor fulsome Zoo allure me nigh 
The cages of its shaggy freaks. 

Whilst still by here elects to fly 
The cyclodonna in her breeks. 

It takes no effort to recall 

The days before the Park was spry 
With wheels, and staid, slow rigs were all 

One saw. 'Tis true you might descry 

Upon the bridle-paths one shy. 
Fair rider in a dozen weeks. 

But nothing ever to outvie 
The cyclodonna in her breeks. 

I know there's music on the Mall, 

And further out that Lake and sky 
Seen from the Terrace hold in thrall 

Full many a dim but ravished eye. 

Yet here I stay to see flash by 
That nymph with health writ on her cheeks, 

Whom no prude shall to me decry. 
The cvclodonna in her breeks. 



Coquette, afoot or stationed high 
Upon a cart that jolts and creaks. 

We don't see jf?^/, we only spy 
The cyclodonna in her breeks! 



la 



BALLADE OF THE YACHT 

Sweet Eos dons her blossom-broidered gown 

Whose rath, green bodice with the dew is dight; 

The clang and clash of brazen bells the town. 

Awake from drowse and dream to love and light. 
His vigil ends the owl on lonely height; 
The soon-ris'n Nimrod pipes the am'rous quail: 
The prisoned bird sings in his gilded gaol; 

Trade's cumbrous wheels begin another day: 
The sun-imps dance upon its reefless sail. 

And with the wind the yacht goes down the bay. 

At zenith-height is Phoebus: in her crown. 

The Day sees sheep and shepherd stretched outright 

Deep in their quiet nooning on the down. 

And dappled kine, breast-high in waters white. 
The wanton, purple passion-flow'rs invite 
Each passing bee across the trellised pale; 
With cloth spread in the bosky intervale 

The brookside angler lunches, cares away: 
The booming waves intone a Stentor wail. 

And with the wind the yacht goes down the bay. 

Still at the wheel remains the boatswain brown. 

When golden stars peep through the roof of Night;, 

In murky shade the distant headlands frown. 

And raven rooks shriek on their homew^ard flight: 
Abroad is Cynthia, unveiled and bright. 
With silvern douceurs for the hill and swale: 
The tavern host commends the evening ale. 

And slattern waves go gossiping. The spray 
Of sea-salt waves flies in the gentle gale. 

And with the wind the yacht goes down the bay. 

Prince, close your book upon the idle tale: 
Romance is cheap, and Fantasy is frail. 

At Dian's court there homage is to pay, — 
Come, she attends upon its glist'ring trail; 

And wnth the wind the yacht goes down the bay^ 

169 



BALLADE OF OCTOBER DUSK 

Orange-scarlet afterglow 

Where was fiercest gold before; 
Rose and purple isles a-row. 

Higher than the swallows soar; 

Plaything bolts of loud-voiced Thor. 

What if day goes goldenly 

And the garden still may be 
Redolent of mint and musk 

When my love is leaving me 
In the chill October dusk? 

Southern skies a bright brooch show 
Such as lady never wore; 

New pale moon that may know 
As she enters at the door 
We go out hearts sad and sore 
Smiling through our misery — 
O the tearful comedy! 

Like a boar with cruel tusk 

Parting wounds and then goes free. 

In the chill October dusk. 

There upon the bay below 

Red lights, green hghts, many-score 
Gleam; black hulks great shadows throw 

That will haunt me evermore. 

-All aboard!" and *«A11 ashore!" 

Cried in drear monotony; 

Up creak gang-planks strong, and we 
Shout farewell with voices husk. 

As the ship moves from the quay 
In the chill October dusk. 

Prince, I mourn; you sup in glee. 
Liege, I fast; your fragrant tea 

Tempts me not, nor flaky rusk; 
For my Love sails to the sea 

In the chill October dusk. 



170 



BALLADE OF THANKSGIVING 

Of all the blessings men receive 

Health is the chiefest it is said: 
How well, surcease or sweet reprieve 

From pain has shown whoe'er some dread 

And lingering ill has chained abed 
Through periods of dire duress; 

But, granting this boon's place the head. 
Let's first give thanks for thankfulness. 

Pure love requited! Ah! believe 

Him that flouts this, knave or misled. 
Let not his obloquies aggrieve. 

Smile down his sophistries instead. 

We on w^hom Hymen's torch has shed 
Its light know how dear eves can bless 

A hearth, — but w^edded or unwed. 
Let's first give thanks for thankfulness. 

A shuttle's Wealth from which we weave 

In Life's cloth many a golden thread; 
And when its seas of sorrow heave, 

A cruse from which the oil is lead. 

Wealth has supplied this bounteous spread 
For which we wait thanks to express. 

But friends, before we break our bread. 
Let's first give thanks for thankfulness. 



Whose sense of gratitude is dead. 
He lacks that gift which to possess 

Gives joy when other gifts are sped: 
Then first give thanks ibr thankfulness. 



BALLADE OF THE MISTLETOE BOUGH 

I sing, like Omar, of a bough 

'Neath which delights await us: 
It rains, as long it rained erenow. 

Sweets that intoxicate us; 

Sweets that would never sate us • 
And as the archives show. 

Sweets that may haply mate us. 
Sing hey! the Mistletoe. 

The pine torn from a mountain's brow. 

Its odors penetrate us 
And lead our feet from failure's slough 

To heights that fascinate us. 

In hues that stimulate us 
The holly-berries glow. 

But though both captivate us, 
Si?ig hey! the Mistletoe. 

Whilst still these brisk north winds endow 

The bard with rare afflatus, 
We'll winter here nor grudge, we vow. 

His cap to Fortunatus. 

The chimes which now elate us 
Proclaim that through the snow 

Yule's come to recreate us — 
Si?ig hey! the Mistletoe. 

Some love us and some hate us: 

Good-will to friend and foe! 
And till the saints translate us, 

Sifig hey! the Mistletoe, 



BALLADE OF THE WHITE YEAR 

Oive crimson afghan serving both, we sat 

Heart-sick through yester-twilight grey and brief 

And watched her fleetly press from marish flat 
To fields where lately shone the aureate sheaf. 
Garbed like a nun, soft-footed as a thief. 

To-night she fills the streets with her cold glare. 

Shrieks down long paths that summer's darlings were 
And at my door. But nay! To valleys wide 

Or stark, dark hills for cloister must she fare. 
Not in these walls shall any pale thing bide. 

Where just erenow she had her habitat. 

Or I misdeem, no voice is choked with grief 

For her leave-taking. As for joy hereat. 
There is not any. Plainly, we'd as lief 
See August hold the land in thirsty fief 

Eternally, as this mad phantom tear 

The pleasant cress from wimpling brooks and stare 
Recurrently at us Ophelia-eyed. 

To cross our threshold, — that she'll never dare! 
Not in these walls shall any pale thing bide. 

The bake-house shops lure each a shiv'ring brat. 
Their flaring lamps disclosing reef on reef 

Of shifting, drifting fleece. This road or that 
A warring host might take with its good chief 
And wake no louder echo than a leaf 
That falls on grass. 

Indoors let us prepare 

A carnival of yellow lights and swear 

O'er steaming toddy, by the flow'rs that died. 

Until the dread one comes who none will spare 
Not in these walls shall any pale thing bide. 

Love, take the white carnation from your hair; 
Throne in its stead this glowing red one there. 

Have fresh coals brought; the fire screen set aside 
Whose gilt, mock roses breathe no June-time air. 

Not in these walls shall any pale thing bide! 

173 



BALLADE AGAINST THE UTOPIAN SCREEI> 

Who bashless revileth his age. 

Decrying its sons to a man. 
He soureth and soileth his page 

As no hack's indecency can. 

If he in our favor would grow 
And finds in our pleasure a meed, 

'Twere folly, or much I mistrow. 
To write a Utopian screed. 

And whoso essays to engage 

With dry psychological bran 
The reader: who toils for his wage 

On verses that never will scan. 

Of themes to verse mal a propos. 
Leaves heritage none to his seed 

Of Fame. And 'twere vainer, sweet foe. 
To write a Utopian screed. 

The pessimist is not a sage 

To put the World under a ban: 
Heroics are shallows of rage — 

To rant is a horrible plan! — 

The rhapsodist, yet doth he so! 
A fig for their air-castle creed. 

Who all their best talents bestow ••' 

To write a Utopian screed! 

My Prince, to all lengths do they go, 

And sates with fool's gold each his greedy. 

Who Reason and Right overthrow 
To write a Utopian screed. 



71 



BALLADE OF THE REVIEWER 

I've read critiques for many years 

All in an easy-going way; 
The serious, that move to tears. 

The truly heartening and gay. 

And I have marvelled (as you may) 
That volumes come from every source 

Which bring this estimate in play: 
**His latest book's a tour deforce!'''* 

If faint praise damns, as it appears. 

To what does overpraise betray? 
'Twould seem that the reviewer fears 

Against bad writing to inveigh. 

One recently — to my dismay — 
A *maiden effort' to endorse. 

Wrote: * 'Here's an author come to stay^ 
His latest book's a tour de force !'^ 

A tale of travel in Algiers 

As prosy as the badger's gray; 
A 'verse collection' hinting shears, 

A *sea romance' as dry as hay! 

Of politics a warped survey, 
A "Dissertation on Divorce" — 

I read of each in this array: 
"His latest book's a tour de force f^ 



Golf weather: Copy due to-day; 

None ready — but he plays, of course! 
Knowing 'twill be quite safe to say: 

"His latest book's a tour de force V 



17: 



BALLADE OF CURRENT FICTION 

In the Gulliver days of my youth, 

(O the Baron was dear to me, too!) 
I heard people pair fiction and truth 

In a figure familiar to you. 

The deduction was sound, that I knew. 
But I say, fearing no contradiction. 

With a current romance in review. 
Truth no longer is stranger than fiction ! 

Time was when I'd given a tooth 

For a tale of the West — of the Sioux 
Or Apache — that thrilled in good sooth 

As no fine fancy could, through and through. 

Ah! but taste that much favored ragout — 
The ''Historical Novel". Its diction 

And chronology prove, both askew, 
Truth no longer is stranger than fiction. 

Monte Crista wrote Dumas, sans ruth 

For them that excitement eschew; 
M. Verne piled up book-shelf and booth 

With deep mysteries none could undue. 

But 'twas not till the still growing crew 
Of biographers brought down affliction 

That, sighing, we fostered the view: 
Truth no longer is stranger than fiction. 



-As I read the new books (for I do) 

Strong and stronger becomes my conviction 

Despite what may once have been true. 
Truth no longer is stranger than fiction. 



176 



BALLADE OF THE CONTEMPORANEOUS 
DRAMA 

Though badly involved be the plot. 

The action deplorably slow. 
The sentiment imbecile rot. 

Your Public will crowd to the *show' 

And make it the veriest *go' 
If the star exploits gowns and a hat 

Designed by some Frenchman & Co. 
The Costume Play's where we are at! 

A man may O'Connor * a lot 

Through a piece whose sanguineous flow 

In Bowery parlance is *hot' 

And shock the least captious, but so 
He wears plumes in his jaunty chapeau, 

A sword at his side and all that. 
His row is dead easy to hoe. 

The Costume Play's where we are at ! 

The Play with a Purpose is not 

The power it was, and I trow 
We've each mother's son clean forgot 

The Problems discussed con and pro. 

(Mostly con!) We're at present aglow 
With frippery worship. (It's flat 

The playwrights are out for the 'dough' — 
The Costume Play's what they are at!) 



(Addressed to conscientious but unsuccessful aspirants for 
dramatic honors.) 

It's needless to have, you should know. 

Your lines down so terribly pat: 
More care on your dressing bestow ! — 

The Costume Plaj* s where we are at ! 

*Reference is made here to the methods of James Owen O'Con- 
nor, one of New York's most noted (!) Tliespians. 

177 



BALLADE OF HER BONBONNIERE 

Now Cupid said he pitied my lone state, 

{lis freedom envied he, else I mistrow!) 
And bade a maiden come to my heart's gate 

Pull at its latch-string hard, nor quarter show. 

And there she stands, deep in disfavor's snow! 
Her brindled locks of sometime bleaching hints. 

And that I could forgive the girl; but O 
Her bonbonniere is filled with peppermints! 

I'm not o'er-eager for a priest-bound mate [blow. 

While twenties' winds from Pleasure's play-ground 
And whe7i I wed no Quakerish-sedate, 

Be-wimpled prude shall mix my biscuit-dough! 

This Cupid' s-choice wears figured frocks that throw 
In shade for loudness old-year bed-quilt chintz — 

And that I could forgive the girl; but woe! 
Her bonbonniere is filled with peppermints! 

Imagine sitting at a play with Kate. 

(That is her name.) You hear a smothered **pho!' 
Mouchoir to face your neighbor sits, distrait. 

While Kitty munches on and doesn't know. 

I might forget in time — a year or so — 
The sad illusion of her cheeks' false tints: 

This is the straw that bends the camel low: 
Her bonbonniere is filled with peppermints! 



Dan Cupid, bundle up your darts and go ! 

And prithee take the damsel with you, since 
I cannot love her if I will or no — 

Her bonbonniere is filled with peppermints ! 



17S 



BALLADE OF BUSINESS LETTERS 

Dear Sir (or Sirs) : — they're started so — 

Your valued favor of — (the date) — 
Has come to hand. We give below 

Our prices, and beg leave to state 

Upon the terms you indicate 
Your order will (no ifs or ands!) 

Receive attention adequate. 
Awaiting your esteemed commands, — 

Dear Sir: — (or Sirs, if there's a Co.) — 

To-day we're very pleased to slate 
Your kind commission. Goods will go 

A month hence by the fastest freight. 

We trust you will not hesitate 
To order in our other brands — 

Each one is better than its mate! 
Awaiting your esteemed commands, — 

Dear Sir (or Sirs) : Please let us know 

How long we must anticipate 
The payment of account you owe. 

Now long past due. While we should hate 

(Collection to accelerate) 
The matter in our lawyers' hands 

To place — we cannot longer wait! 
Awaiting your esteemed commands, — 



Prince, ballads' burdens celebrate 
Themes sumless as the Ocean's sands: 
Trade, one refrain sings early, late, — 
**Awaiting your esteemed command .'' 



179 



BALLADE OF AGE AND YOUTH 

I'm forty past. There is a tinge of gray 
Upon my beard that tonics can't displace; 

And as I shaved to — yes, it was to-day. 
The mirror hinted to my very face 
That I am aging; eke that it could trace 

Crowfeet at either eye; I should be told! 

But while this heart of mine keeps its young pace 

**My glass shall not persuade me I am old!" 

I'm portly grown; but not too stout to play 

An inning now and then; can bag a brace 
Of any feathered things that come my way; 

Or take a five-bar gate upon the chase. 

For me there's still excitement in a race; 
Nor have I yet begun to count my gold — 

Until I cannot tell the deuce from ace, 
**My glass shall not persuade me I am old!" 

I'm grown a trifle stiff — a stick, some say — 

(My gaiters have grown harder to unlace !) 
But manage still to mount and ride away 

In saddle or a-wheel with old-time grace. 

And I can pirouette if I've the space, 
Or waltz till Bud's mama is prone to scold; 

Can flirt a very — well, in any case, 
**My glass shall not persuade me I am old!" 

She owns to twenty-three. Ah, fickle, base! 

Who jilted me, as many years grown cold. 
Time, while you sour her with no wry grimace, 

**My glass shall not persuade me / am old!" 



1 80 



BALLADE OF SNOBS 

{^Ir regular^) 

He brings his garb over the ocean 

That some Cockney hack has created; 
At; 1 cherishes, somehow, a notion 

iiroadway should not be cultivated. 

The while Cousin Snip, much elated. 
Ships his tweeds as ill-cut as you please, — 

Ah! how would its dainties be rated 
If Dresden were not overseas? 

Madame, her soap, salts, perfume, lotion. 
Gowns, lingerie, hats overweighted; 

The missal that's half her devotion, 

(By some frowsy Celt consecrated,) — 
The head of her house, dissipated. 

She must needs go abroad for all these! 
Ah ! how would its dainties be rated 

If Dresden were not overseas? 

Your girl. Sir, will sip no love-potion 

Ofhome-make, and yonder's mis-mated, 
My boy shows a deal of emotion 

If here he must be educated. 

And we, you and I, have debated 
Our Land's right to any degrees, — 

Ah! how would its dainties be rated 
If Dresden were not overseas? 

Europa, your trap is well-baited: 

We swallow both hook and the cheese! 

Ah! how would its dainties be rated 
If Dresden were not overseas? 



i8i 



BALLADE OF A MODERN WITCH 

{^Irregular') 

I'll warrant you Kate is a witch. 
For when she so much as displays 

A dimple I've straightway a stitch 

Somewhere near my heart that dismays. 
And pains that no ointment allays. 

Nor lotion, nor liniment nips — 
It's well she's too late for the gaze 

Of Endicott, Bradstreet and Phips! 

I'll warrant you Kate is a witch 

Though 'gainst all weird things she inveighs 
My hopes to their uttermost pitch 

Her eyes, if she wills it, can raise: 

Or dash them, if so she essays. 
To depths of eternal eclipse 

As Stygian dark as the ways 
Of Endicott, Bradstreet and Phips. 

I'll warrant you Kate is a witch 

In spite of her positive nays. 
And still with each twinge and each twitch 

Her craft takes a pleasanter phase. 

Whatever in me this betrays. 
In truth of romance it quite strips 

The most undesirable bays 
Of Endicott, Bradstreet and Phips. 

Prince, if in the old Salem days 

As Kate's, there were pleas from such lips, 
I can't say enough in dispraise 

Of Endicott, Bradstreet and Phips! 



182 



BALLADE PENSOROSO 

Oh ! dreary twelvemonth that has crept 

With laggard steps the seasons through. 
Thy cruel clouds have coldly kept 

Their sweeter side close from my view. 

Within thy skies no tender blue. 
No dancing sunlight on the bay, — 

As when thou dawned, my grief is new. 
My Love is dead a year to-day. 

With no dear joy my heart has leapt 

As in old time 'twas wont to do: 
No flow'rs on May's young bosom slept 

With redolence and charm of hue; 

And June was garlanded in rue. 
Mid- August's brightest days were gray. 

And with each hour my sorrow grew. 
My Love is dead a year to-day. 

Then autumn's dreadful tempests swept 
Across her grave, where sombre yew 

And writhing willow groaned and wept 
In trist accord with me. Less true 
Hadst thou been, bleeding heart, say vv^ho 

Would merrier be than W Yet, nay ! 
Beat loyal on, true hearts are few ! 

My Love is dead a year to-day. 

Friend, naught with brightness can endue 
Th' incessant winter of my way: 

Nor light I seek, nor mirth pursue, — 
My Love is dead a year to-day. 



iS3 



BALLADE OF THE SNOWDROP 

*'Out of the snoWy the snowdrop — out of death comes 

life:' 
After everness of days 

White with fleece from countless bales 
Piled breast-high along the ways 

Shroud-like, — when the wind bewails 

Earth's dead glory, — loud All Hails 
Greet not least of God's dear gifts. 

This, whose promise never fails. 
Pale, sweet snowdrop 'tween the drifts. 

Bloom-deep boughs and budding sprays; 

Quick release of snow-bound swales; 
Glad, new notes of woodland praise. 

Green-clad groves and gentle gales: 

Summer light on silver sails, — 
These it promises and shifts 

From the heart all wintry ails. 
Pale, sweet snowdrop 'tween the drifts. 

Harbinger of earthly Mays; 

Symbol of celestial vales. 
And the life One's blest hands raise 

From the dark of Death's chill gaols: 

Spirit in the gloom that quails 
Reach your lute and close its rifts. 

Here is come that Hope entails, — 
Pale, sweet snowdrop 'tween the drifts. 

Dear my sister, graveyard pales 

Lose their awe when winter lifts 
And the new life's sign unveils, — 

Pale, sweet snowdrop 'tween the drifts. 



BALLADE OF THE EVERGREEN AND TRUE 
FRIENDSHIP 

Now to the rigors of this aguish plain 

Who will address a verse of worshipment? 

Whose winds are Mistral-wild, and whose slant rain 
Is keen and cold as summer show'rs are gent: 
Whose brook, a wanton and incontinent. 

Intrigues with Fresco, though late did she shine 

With Sunbeam's warmest kiss. Who do incline 
To sing this widowed heath, shent of all sheen? 

None? None will do this? Then the joy be mine — 
There is our Friendship's type, the evergreen. 

It was but yesternight, inconstant swain. 

That you the frail, blue myosotis sent 
Enfolded with a gushing quatorzain 

Unto your newest dear, yet is it spent. 

And you the ardor of your runes repent. 
Though whea you wrote, fret did you and repine 
Because you could not promise in each line 

Eternal truth. And this was but yestreen! 
Fit emblem of your faith, this faded sign! 

There is our Friendship's type, — the evergreen. 

Knights of idlesse who dominate Cockaigne, 

And who indenizen the vast extent 
Yclept Bohemia, you do profane 

The holy name of Friendship that invent 

A chance to call it where you most frequent: 
You, whose best joy is all cocottes and wine. 
Pledge sweet good-fellowship in bitter Rhine, 

Then in an hour you curse the cup and quean! 
What symbol has this fellowship divine? 

There is our Friendship's type, — the evergreen. 

Time, crave we this, who owed you much lang syne: 
To ever kneel before a spotless shrine 

To honor consecrate and candor clean. 
That we may tell it of the constant pine — 

There is our Friendship's type, the evergreen! 

185 



BALLADE OF THE SONG AND THE PLAINT 

Where comes Orsino of a tristful mien. 

Cheeks wan with languishment and fingers cold. 

To voice his love anew in dole and threne, — 
Mark you, where comes Orsino unconsoled. 
None stay to hear his bitter grievance told; 
But flee in haste his rueful presence, lest 
His low lament disquiet ev'ry breast. 

Unwisest swain is he who woos his saint 
With threnodies full of his heart's unrest: 

Who loves the song whose burden is a plaint? 

Mark you the sweet young year whose skirts of green 
Are stitched with harebell blue and crowfoot gold: 

Is there a churl who can so much misween 
As think her fairer when she has grown old 
And all her rivers sigh? When winds o'er-bold 
The good trees ravish, desecrate the nest 
Of shiv'ring birds and sough their sorriest? 

Give me of Maying measures, dulcet-faint. 
These of all twelvemonth melodies are best: 

Who loves the song whose burden is a plaint? 

Wherefore, my poet, is thy pen so keen 
To write of tragedies? And ye who hold 

Euterpe first of all the Nine, ye glean 

What good, what pleasure of the dirge ye scrolled? 
Men love not tears, nor knells for being tolled ! 
Go emulate the thrush who have transgressed 
And given monody for mirth! A pest 

Be to the knave whose grief knows no restraint ! 
Sing us a ditty that is full of jest: 

Who loves the song whose burden is a plaint? 

Prince, 'tis as you have said, we all attest. 
The minstrel should not leave us sore distressed : 

The world with woe is all too well acquaint ! 
He surely of a de'il is possessed 

Who loves the song whose burden is a plaint. 

i86 



en's 



I ii^ 




